


Nonsense and Insensibility

by ChrisCalledMeSweetie



Series: Sherlock Meets Jane Austen [3]
Category: Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU - Regency England, But he IS very bi, Captain Watson is neither very young nor very gay, Greg has some old baggage, M/M, Moriarty is only slightly villainous, Mycroft is trying very hard to control his feelings, No heteronormativity, No period-typical homophobia, No — not that kind of dog, Victor Trevor is a dog, Young Sherlock is a drama queen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-25 18:51:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 106,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14983379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/pseuds/ChrisCalledMeSweetie
Summary: Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes were born to an extraordinary fate. They were born to discover the falsehood of their own opinions, and to counteract, by their conduct, their most favourite maxims. The oft-spoken conviction of each — “the more I know of the world, the more I am convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love” — would be put to the test by Greg Lestrade, Victor Trevor, and Captain John Watson.





	1. Musgrave Hall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PatPrecieux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/gifts), [DaisyFairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/gifts), [NovaNara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/gifts), [jazzthecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzthecat/gifts), [lijahlover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lijahlover/gifts), [HamishWH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HamishWH/gifts), [SandySins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandySins/gifts), [Mechelarala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mechelarala/gifts), [Jalizar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jalizar/gifts), [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/gifts).



> This is a collaboration between myself and the ghost of Jane Austen, with the latter providing most of the genius and the former providing all of the Johnlock and Mystrade romance.

The family of Holmes had long been settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Musgrave Hall, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance.

 

Tragedy came; Mr. Holmes died. No sooner was his funeral over, than James Moriarty, without sending any notice of his intention to the Holmes family, arrived at Musgrave Hall with his wife Irene, their son Jimmy, and all their attendants. No one could dispute their right to come; the estate was entailed upon Mr. Moriarty, and became his from the moment of his uncle’s decease. However, James and Irene Moriarty had never been favourites with any of the Holmes family. Still, they had had no opportunity, till the present, of showing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people they could act when occasion required it.

 

Before his death, Mr. Holmes had extracted a promise from his nephew to look out for the interest of his aunt and cousins. James Moriarty had assured his uncle that he would do everything in his power to make them comfortable. Mr. Holmes was rendered easy by such an assurance, and James Moriarty had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them.

 

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold-hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed. He was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was: he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very fond of his wife. But his wife was a strong caricature of himself: more narrow-minded and selfish. 

 

Irene Moriarty now installed herself mistress of Musgrave Hall; and the Holmes family were degraded to the condition of visitors. So acutely did Mrs. Holmes feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise Mrs. Moriarty for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house forever, had not the entreaty of her eldest son induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their cousin.

 

Mycroft, this eldest son, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified him, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of his mother, and enabled him frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in Mrs. Holmes which must generally have led to imprudence. Mycroft had an excellent heart; his disposition was affectionate, and his feelings were strong; but he knew how to govern them. It was a knowledge which his mother had yet to learn; and which one of his brothers had resolved never to be taught.

 

Sherlock's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to Mycroft's. He was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: his sorrows, his joys, could have no moderation. He was generous, amiable, interesting: he was everything but prudent. The resemblance between him and his mother was strikingly great.

 

Mycroft saw, with concern, the excess of his brother's sensibility; but by Mrs. Holmes it was valued and cherished. They encouraged each other in the violence of their affliction over the death of Mr. Holmes. The agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again and again. They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future. 

 

Mycroft, too, was deeply afflicted; but still he could struggle, he could exert himself. He could consult with his cousin, could treat both James and Irene Moriarty with proper attention; and could strive to rouse his mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.

 

Sherrinford, the other brother, was a good-humored, well-disposed boy; but as he had already imbibed a good deal of Sherlock's flair for the dramatic, without having much of his sense, he did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal his brothers at a more advanced period of life.

 

When he had given his promise to Mr. Holmes, James Moriarty had meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his cousins by the present of a thousand pounds apiece. He then really thought himself equal to it. The prospect of four thousand a year from the Musgrave estate, in addition to his present income, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity. Yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome! In addition to the seven thousand they already had between them, it would be enough to make them completely easy. He could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience. He thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent.

 

Irene Moriarty, though, did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his cousins. To take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. She begged James to think again on the subject. How could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child, too, of so large a sum? And what possible claim could Mycroft, Sherlock, and Sherrinford, who were related to him only as cousins, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount? Why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little Jimmy, by giving away all his money to the Holmes family?

 

"It was my uncle's last request to me," replied her husband, "that I should assist his widow and sons."

 

"He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child."

 

"He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear Irene; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose I should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.”

 

“I believe you are already amply discharging your duty,” replied Irene, “by allowing them to remain here at Musgrave Hall.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that Not Entirely Clueless is complete, this fic will be taking over my Wednesday Jane Austen fusion posting slot. I hope you'll enjoy it. :)


	2. The Abilities and Taste of Mr. Greg Lestrade

Mrs. Holmes remained at Musgrave Hall several months; not from any disinclination to move, for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of Musgrave Hall (for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible). But she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest son, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which his mother would have approved.

 

Mrs. Holmes had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his nephew in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her sons' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than seven thousand pounds would support her in affluence. For their cousin's sake, too, for the sake of James Moriarty’s own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself and her sons convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions.

 

The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for Irene Moriarty, was very much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded; and perhaps the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions of Mrs. Holmes, to her sons' continuance at Musgrave Hall. This circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest son and the half-brother of Irene Moriarty, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at Musgrave Hall, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there.

 

Some parents might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for Greg Lestrade was the eldest son Irene’s mother’s second husband, who had died very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother. But Mrs. Holmes was alike uninfluenced by either consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he loved her son, and that Mycroft returned the partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that Mycroft's merit should not be acknowledged by everyone who knew him, was to her comprehension impossible.

 

Greg Lestrade was not immediately recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. His manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. Though handsome, he was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement. 

 

Unfortunately, he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and half-sister, who longed to see him distinguished — as — they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day. Irene wished it likewise; but in the meanwhile, till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche. But Greg had no turn for great men or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life. Fortunately for his mother and sister, he had a younger brother who was more promising.

 

Greg had been staying several weeks in Musgrave Hall before he engaged much of Mrs. Holmes' attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects. She saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation. She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which Mycroft chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister. It was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to Mrs. Holmes.

 

"It is enough," said she. “To say that he is unlike Irene is enough. It implies everything amiable. I love him already."

 

"I think you will like him," said Mycroft, "when you know more of him."

 

"Like him!" replied his mother with a smile. "I feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love."

 

"You may esteem him."

 

"I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."

 

Mrs. Holmes now took pains to get acquainted with Greg Lestrade. Her manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve. She speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for Mycroft perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate.

 

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to Mycroft, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.

 

"In a few months, my dear Sherlock,” said she, "Mycroft will, in all probability, be settled for life. We shall miss him; but _he_ will be happy."

 

“Oh, Mummy! What shall we do without him?"

 

"My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives. You will gain a brother-in-law, a truly affectionate brother-in-law. I have the highest opinion in the world of Greg's heart. But you look grave, Sherlock; do you disapprove your brother's choice?"

 

"Perhaps," said Sherlock, "I may consider it with some surprise. Greg is very amiable, but yet — he is not the kind of young man — there is something wanting — his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my brother. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mummy, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Mycroft's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to Mycroft while he draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. 

 

“To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh, Mummy! How spiritless, how tame was Greg's manner in reading to us last night! I felt for Mycroft most severely. Yet he bore it with so much composure, he seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!"

 

"He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you _would_ give him Cowper."

 

"Nay, Mummy, if he is not to be animated by Cowper! — But we must allow for difference of taste. Mycroft has not my feelings, and therefore he may overlook it, and be happy with Greg. But it would have broken _my_ heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mummy, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Greg's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm."

 

"Remember, my love, that you are not yet seventeen. It is too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance only, my Sherlock, may your destiny be different from hers!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the squeeing over Mystrade begin...
> 
> Also, it has come to my attention that AO3 combined the notification email for the first chapter of this story with the one for the epilogue of Not Entirely Clueless last week. So, if you missed the ending of Not Entirely Clueless, you can read it now. :)


	3. Sherlock and Mycroft Discuss Greg

"What a pity it is, Mycroft," said Sherlock, "that Greg should have no taste for drawing."

 

"No taste for drawing!" replied Mycroft. "Why should you think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right."

 

Sherlock said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Mycroft described as excited in Greg by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in his opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within himself at the mistake, Sherlock honoured his brother for that blind partiality to Greg which produced it.

 

"I hope, Sherlock," continued Mycroft, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if _that_ were your opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."

 

Sherlock hardly knew what to say. He would not wound the feelings of his brother on any account, and yet to say what he did not believe was impossible. At length he replied:

 

"Do not be offended, Mycroft, if my praise of him is not in everything equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense. I think him everything that is worthy and amiable."

 

"I am sure," replied Mycroft, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."

 

Sherlock rejoiced to find his brother so easily pleased.

 

"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Mycroft, "no one can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that reserve which too often keeps him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter propensities, as you call them, you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by our mother. 

 

“I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, his enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person. At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person may not immediately be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really handsome. What say you, Sherlock?"

 

"I shall very soon think him handsome, Mycroft, if I do not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother-in-law, I shall no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his heart."

 

Mycroft started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth he had been betrayed into, in speaking of Greg. He felt that Greg stood very high in his opinion. He believed the regard to be mutual; but he required greater certainty of it to make Sherlock's conviction of their attachment agreeable to him. Mycroft knew that what Sherlock and his mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next — that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. He tried to explain the real state of the case to his brother.

 

"I do not attempt to deny," said he, "that I think very highly of him — that I greatly esteem, that I like him."

 

Sherlock here burst forth with indignation — "Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Mycroft! Oh! Worse than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment."

 

Mycroft could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said he; "and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion — the hope — of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But farther than this you must not believe. 

 

“I am by no means assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel little — scarcely any — doubt of his preference. But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from Irene's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if Greg is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a man who had not either a great fortune or high rank."

 

Sherlock was astonished to find how much the imagination of his mother and himself had outstripped the truth.

 

"And you really are not engaged to him!" said he. "Yet it certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I shall not lose you so soon, and Greg will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! If he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!"

 

Mycroft had given his real opinion to his brother. He could not consider his partiality for Greg in so prosperous a state as Sherlock had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about Greg which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising. A doubt of Mycroft’s regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection. 

 

Mycroft knew that Mrs. Lestrade neither behaved to her son so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for Mycroft to feel easy on the subject. He was far from depending on that result of Greg’s preference of him, which his mother and brother still considered as certain. Nay, the longer they were together, the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, Mycroft believed it to be no more than friendship.

 

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by Irene, to make her uneasy, and at the same time (which was still more common) to make her uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting Mrs. Holmes on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs. Lestrade's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young person who attempted to _draw him in_ ; that Mrs. Holmes could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She gave Irene an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Mycroft should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.

 

In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, Sir Michael Stamford, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her. 

 

He earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her sons to Baker Manor, the place of his own residence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether Baker Cottage could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really anxious to accommodate them, and the whole of his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections. 

 

Mrs. Holmes needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The situation of Baker, in a county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood of Musgrave Hall was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing the Moriartys’ guest; and to remove forever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir Michael Stamford her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to show both letters to her sons, that she might be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent.

 

Mycroft had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance from Musgrave Hall, than immediately amongst their present acquaintance. On _that_ head, therefore, it was not for him to oppose his mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as described by Sir Michael, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave him no right of objection on either point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm to his fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Musgrave Hall beyond his wishes, he made no attempt to dissuade his mother from sending a letter of acquiescence. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am absolutely thrilled to announce that Lockedinjohnlock, whose vocal talents I bid on in the Fandom Trumps Hate charity auction, has created a [podfic of Southanger Abbey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058439). She'll be posting a chapter each day throughout July. Whether or not you've read Southanger Abbey - the first of my Sherlock Meets Jane Austen fusion fics - I guarantee you'll love listening to Lockedinjohnlock read it. Please head over there and give her some love. ♥ ♥ ♥


	4. Goodbye to Dear, Dear Musgrave Hall

No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Holmes indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing to James and Irene Moriarty that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till everything were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her with surprise. Irene said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped that Mrs. Holmes would not be settled far from Musgrave Hall. She had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into Devonshire. 

 

Greg turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, "Devonshire! Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And to what part of it?" 

 

She explained the situation. It was within four miles northward of Exeter.

 

"It is but a cottage," she continued, "but I hope to see many of my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, I am sure I will find none in accommodating them."

 

She concluded with a very civil (if not particularly sincere) invitation to Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty to visit her at Baker Cottage; and to Greg she gave one with still greater affection. Though her late conversation with Irene had made her resolve on remaining at Musgrave Hall no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which it principally tended. To separate Greg and Mycroft was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show Irene, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.

 

Mrs. Holmes took Baker Cottage for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished, and she might have immediate possession. No difficulty arose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her effects at Musgrave Hall, and to determine her future household, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested her, was soon done. 

 

The horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest son. For the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of Mycroft prevailed. His wisdom, too, limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their establishment at Musgrave Hall.

 

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into Devonshire, to prepare the house for their arrival; for as Lady Stamford was entirely unknown to Mrs. Holmes, she preferred going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at Baker Manor; and she relied so undoubtingly on Sir Michael's description of the house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own. Her eagerness to be gone from Musgrave Hall was preserved from diminution by the evident satisfaction of Irene in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure. 

 

James Moriarty told Mrs. Holmes again and again how exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from Musgrave Hall as to prevent his being of any more service to her. Now was the time when his promise to his uncle might with particular propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment. But Mrs. Holmes began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months at Musgrave Hall. He so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving money away.

 

In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir Michael Stamford's first letter to Musgrave Hall, everything was so far settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Holmes and her sons to begin their journey.

 

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved.

 

"Dear, dear Musgrave Hall!" said Sherlock, as he wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when shall I cease to regret you? When learn to feel a home elsewhere? Oh, happy house, could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more? And you, ye well-known trees! But you will continue the same; no leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe you no longer! No; you will continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade! But who will remain to enjoy you?" 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think will happen once the Holmes family moves to Baker Cottage?
> 
> While you're waiting to find out, you might enjoy my latest ficlet - [The Defenestration of Rosie Watson-Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15231618).


	5. Baker Cottage

The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Baker Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a pleasant, fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house. A small green court was the whole of its domain in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it.

 

As a house, Baker Cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs. Four bedrooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been built many years and was in good repair. 

 

In comparison of Musgrave Hall, it was poor and small indeed; but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation.

 

The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody. The village of Baker was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows. The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond. The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them.

 

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Holmes was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. 

 

"As for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I shall, we may think about building. These parlors are both too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see often collected here; but one must not expect everything. I shall see how much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly."

 

In the meantime, till these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred a year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to form themselves a home. Sherlock's pianoforte and violin were unpacked and properly situated; and Mycroft's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room.

 

In such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to Baker, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir Michael Stamford was a good-looking man about forty. He had formerly visited the Holmes family, but it was too long ago for his young cousins to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. 

 

He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at Baker Manor every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the manor, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.

 

Lady Stamford had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on Mrs. Holmes as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day.

 

They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Baker must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes. Lady Stamford was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted. But they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by showing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most commonplace inquiry or remark.

 

Conversation, however, was not lacking, for Sir Michael was very chatty, and Lady Stamford had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to  in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course everybody differed, and everybody was astonished at the opinion of the others.

 

An opportunity was soon to be given to the Holmes family of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir Michael would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the manor the next day. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, who could Sir Michael Stamford possibly introduce the Holmes family to? Find out next week, when they visit Baker Manor.


	6. Baker Manor

Baker Manor was about half a mile from the cottage. The Holmes family had passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from their view at home by the projection of a hill. The house was large and handsome; and the Stamfords lived in a style of equal hospitality and elegance. The former was for Sir Michael's gratification, the latter for that of his lady. 

 

They were scarcely ever without some friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood. It was necessary to the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with such as society produced, within a very narrow compass. Sir Michael was a sportsman, Lady Stamford a mother. He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and these were their only resources. Lady Stamford had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year round, while Sir Michael's independent employments were in existence only half the time. Continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir Michael, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife.

 

Lady Stamford prided herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties. But Sir Michael's satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was forever forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young person who was not suffering under the insatiable appetite of fifteen.

 

The arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for Baker Cottage. Mrs. Holmes’ sons were young, handsome, and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a young man could want to make his mind as captivating as his person. The friendliness of Sir Michael’s disposition made him happy in accommodating those whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate. In showing kindness to his cousins, therefore, he had the real satisfaction of a good heart.

 

Mrs. Holmes and her sons were met at the door of the house by Sir Michael himself, who welcomed them to Baker Manor with genuine warmth; and, as he attended them to the drawing room, repeated to the young gentlemen the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day before, at being unable to get any other smart young people to meet them. They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a particular friend who was staying at the manor, but who was neither very young nor very gay. 

 

He hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again. He had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but it was moonlight and everybody was full of engagements. Luckily Lady Stamford's mother had arrived at Baker Manor within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful, agreeable woman, he hoped the young gentlemen would not find it so very dull as they might imagine. The young gentlemen, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more.

 

Mrs. Hudson, Lady Stamford's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and a bit vulgar. She was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Sherlock was vexed at it for his brother's sake, and turned his eyes towards Mycroft to see how he bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave Mycroft far more pain than could arise from such commonplace raillery as Mrs. Hudson's.

 

Captain Watson, the friend of Sir Michael, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend, than Lady Stamford was to be his wife, or Mrs. Hudson to be Lady Stamford's mother. He was silent and grave. His appearance, however, was not unpleasing, in spite of his being, in the opinion of Sherlock and Sherrinford, an absolute old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of thirty; but still, his face was handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike.

 

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as companions to Mycroft or Sherlock; but the cold insipidity of Lady Stamford was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of Captain Watson, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir Michael and his mother-in-law, was interesting. Lady Stamford seemed to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except what related to themselves.

 

In the evening, as Sherlock was discovered to be musical, he was invited to play. The instrument was unlocked, everybody prepared to be charmed, and Sherlock, who sang very well, at their request went through the chief of the songs which Lady Stamford had brought into the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.

 

Sherlock's performance was highly applauded. Sir Michael was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation with the others while every song lasted. Lady Stamford frequently called him to order, wondered how anyone's attention could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked Sherlock to sing a particular song which Sherlock had just finished. 

 

Captain Watson alone, of all the party, heard Sherlock without being in raptures. He paid him only the compliment of attention; and Sherlock felt a respect for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste. His pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with Sherlock’s own, was estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and he was reasonable enough to allow that a man over thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. He was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the Captain's advanced state of life which humanity required. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two new acquaintances! What parts do you think they shall play in our tale? And what sort of impression have they made on the Holmes family? Come back next week to find out...


	7. Captain Watson, an Old Bachelor

Mrs. Hudson was a widow with an ample fortune. She had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world. In the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached, and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. She was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young person by insinuations over some particular love interest. This kind of discernment enabled her, soon after her arrival at Baker, decisively to pronounce that Captain John Watson was very much in love with Sherlock Holmes. 

 

She rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while Sherlock sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the Stamfords' dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to Sherlock again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It would be an excellent match, for Captain Watson was rich, and Sherlock Holmes was uncommonly clever and handsome. Mrs. Hudson had been anxious to see Captain Watson well married, ever since her connection with Sir Michael first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good spouse for every young person.

 

The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both. At the manor, Mrs. Hudson laughed at the Captain, and in the cottage at Sherlock. To the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, Sherlock hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for he considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the Captain's advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.

 

Mrs. Holmes, who could not think a man ten years younger than herself so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her son, ventured to clear Mrs. Hudson from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age.

 

"But at least, Mummy, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured. Captain Watson is certainly younger than Mrs. Hudson, but he is over a dozen years my senior; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous! When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?"

 

"Infirmity!" said Mycroft. "Do you call Captain Watson infirm? I can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to our mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his being a hearty and vigorous man!"

 

"Did not you see him favouring his left shoulder?”

 

“That has nothing to do with his age,” said Mycroft. “The man was a soldier; his injury was nobly earned.”

 

“Nevertheless,” replied Sherlock, “can you deny he is in the stage of declining life?”

 

"My dearest child," said his mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of _my_ decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty."

 

"Mummy, you are not doing me justice. I know very well that Captain Watson is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature. But a man of thirty has nothing to do with matrimony."

 

"Perhaps," said Mycroft, “a man of thirty and one of seventeen had better not have anything to do with matrimony together. But if there should by any chance happen to be someone who is single at seven and twenty, they should not think Captain Watson's being thirty any objection to his marrying."

 

"Someone of seven and twenty," said Sherlock, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again. If, at that age, one’s home be uncomfortable, or one’s fortune small, I can suppose that one might submit to a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, of course. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other."

 

"It would be impossible, I know," replied Mycroft, "to convince you that someone of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion. But I must object to your dooming Captain Watson to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight ache in one of his shoulders."

 

"But he talked of flannel waistcoats," said Sherlock; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble."

 

"Had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much. Confess, Sherlock, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?"

 

Soon after this, upon Mycroft's leaving the room, Sherlock said, “Mummy, I have an alarm on the subject of illness which I cannot conceal from you. I am sure Greg Lestrade is not well. We have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come. Nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay. What else can detain him at Musgrave Hall?"

 

"Had you any idea of his coming so soon?" asked Mrs. Holmes. "I had none. On the contrary, if I have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a lack of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when I talked of his coming to Baker Cottage. Does Mycroft expect him already?"

 

"I have never mentioned it to him, but of course he must."

 

"I rather think you are mistaken, for when I was talking to him yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, he observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time."

 

"How strange this is! What can be the meaning of it? But the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable! How cold, how composed were their adieus! How languid their conversation the last evening of their being together! In Greg's farewell there was no distinction between Mycroft and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both. Twice did I leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room. 

 

“And Mycroft, in quitting Musgrave Hall and Greg, cried not as I did. Even now his self-command is invariable. When is he dejected or melancholy? When does he try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it? I cannot at all understand my brother’s feelings.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you understand Mycroft's feelings? Or Sherlock's? Or, for that matter, Captain Watson's? Do share your thoughts. :)
> 
> The first story in my Sherlock Meets Jane Austen series, Southanger Abbey, is now a complete 7-hour [podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058439), read for you by the incredibly talented Lockedinjohnlock. Please check it out, and leave her some kudos and comments. Who knows - if you give her enough love, you might even be able to entice her to record the rest of the series. :)


	8. A Gallant Rescue

The Holmes brothers were now settled at Baker Cottage with tolerable comfort to themselves. The house and the garden had become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to Musgrave Hall half its charms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than Musgrave Hall had been able to afford, since the loss of their father. Sir Michael Stamford, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.

 

Their visitors, except those from Baker Manor, were not many; for, in spite of Sir Michael's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at their service, the independence of Mrs. Holmes' spirit overcame the wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk. There were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable. 

 

About a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of Allenham, they had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an ancient, respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little of Musgrave Hall, interested their imagination and made them wish to be better acquainted with it. But they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, Lady Smallwood, an elderly woman of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.

 

The whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks. The high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the mud of the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did Sherlock and Sherrinford one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned. The weather was not tempting enough to draw their mother and elder brother from their pencil and their book, in spite of Sherlock's declaration that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their hills; and the two boys set off together.

 

They gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears which had prevented their mother and Mycroft from sharing such delightful sensations.

 

"Is there a felicity in the world," said Sherlock, "superior to this? Sherrinford, we will walk here at least two hours."

 

Sherrinford agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in their faces. Chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house. One consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate.

 

They set off. Sherlock had at first the advantage, but a false step brought him suddenly to the ground; and Sherrinford, unable to stop himself to assist him, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety.

 

A gentleman, carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of Sherlock, when his accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to be of assistance. Sherlock had raised himself from the ground, but his foot had been twisted in his fall, and he was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that the younger man’s modesty declined what his situation rendered necessary, took him up in his arms without farther delay, and carried him down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by Sherrinford, he bore Sherlock directly into the house, whither Sherrinford was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated him in a chair in the parlour.

 

Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on the stranger with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Holmes would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings.

 

She thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Holmes then begged to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Victor Trevor, and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after Mr. Holmes. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.

 

His manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against Sherlock received particular spirit from his exterior attractions. Sherlock himself had seen less of his rescuer than the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over his face, on Mr. Trevor’s lifting him up, had robbed him of the power of regarding him after their entering the house. But Sherlock had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned his praise. 

 

Victor Trevor’s person and air were equal to what Sherlock’s fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying him into the house with so little formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to him. Every circumstance belonging to him was interesting. His name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and Sherlock decided that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming. His imagination was busy, his reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded.

 

Sir Michael called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and Sherlock's accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of Victor Trevor at Allenham.

 

"Victor Trevor!" cried Sir Michael. "What, is _he_ in the country? That is good news! I will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on Thursday."

 

"You know him, then," said Mrs. Holmes.

 

"Know him! To be sure I do. Why, he is down here every year."

 

"And what sort of a young man is he?"

 

"As good a kind of fellow as ever lived, I assure you. A very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in England."

 

"And is that all you can say for him?" cried Sherlock, indignantly. "But what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance? What his pursuits, his talents, and genius?"

 

Sir Michael was rather puzzled.

 

"Upon my soul," said he, "I do not know much about him as to all that. But he is a pleasant, good-humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer I ever saw. Was she out with him today?"

 

But Sherlock could no more satisfy him as to the colour of Mr. Trevor's pointer, than Sir Michael could describe to him the shades of his mind.

 

"But who is he?" asked Mycroft. "Where does he come from? Has he a house at Allenham?"

 

On this point Sir Michael could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that Mr. Trevor had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting Lady Smallwood, at Allenham Court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, to Mycroft, "Yes, yes, he is very well worth catching, I can tell you, Mr. Holmes; he has a pretty little estate of his own in Somersetshire besides; and if I were you, I would not give him up to my younger brother, in spite of all this tumbling down hills. Master Sherlock must not expect to have all the men to himself. Captain Watson will be jealous, if he does not take care."

 

"I do not believe," said Mrs. Holmes, with a good-humoured smile, "that Mr. Trevor will be incommoded by the attempts of either of _my_ sons towards what you call _catching_ him. It is not an employment to which they have been brought up. Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich. I am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible."

 

"He is as good a sort of fellow, I believe, as ever lived," repeated Sir Michael. "I remember last Christmas at a little hop at the manor, he danced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down."

 

"Did he indeed?" cried Sherlock with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?"

 

"Yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to the hounds."

 

"That is what I like; that is what a young man ought to be. Whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue."

 

"Aye, aye, I see how it will be," said Sir Michael. "I see how it will be. You will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor Captain Watson."

 

"That is an expression, Sir Michael," said Sherlock, warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every commonplace phrase by which wit is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity."

 

Sir Michael did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied,

 

"Aye, you will make conquests enough, I dare say, one way or other. Poor Captain Watson! He is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, I can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of Victor Trevor? Will he set himself up as Captain Watson's rival for Sherlock's affection?


	9. Sherlock's Preserver

Sherlock's Preserver, as Sherrinford, with more elegance than precision, styled Victor Trevor, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries. He was received by Mrs. Holmes with more than politeness; with a kindness which Sir Michael's account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and everything that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him. Of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced.

 

Mycroft was a fine, handsome young man, and Sherlock was still handsomer. His face was so striking, that when in the common cant of praise, he was called beautiful, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. In his eyes there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight. From Victor Trevor their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created. But when this passed away, when Sherlock’s spirits became collected, when he saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, Mr. Trevor united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when he heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, Sherlock gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to himself for the rest of his stay.

 

It was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage him to talk. Sherlock could not be silent when such points were introduced, and he had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion. They speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either. 

 

Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, Sherlock proceeded to question him on the subject of books; his favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of one and twenty must have been insensible, indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each — or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of Sherlock’s arguments and the brightness of his eyes could be displayed. Victor Trevor acquiesced in all his decisions, caught all his enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.

 

"Well, Sherlock," said Mycroft, as soon as he had left them, "for one morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Trevor's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary dispatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask."

 

"Mycroft," cried Sherlock, "is this fair? Is this just? Are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every commonplace notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful. Had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."

 

"My love," said their mother, "you must not be offended with Mycroft — he was only in jest. I should scold him myself, if he were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend." 

 

Sherlock was softened in a moment.

 

Victor Trevor, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer. He came to them every day. To enquire after Sherlock was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by Sherlock's perfect recovery. 

 

Sherlock was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome. Victor Trevor was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Sherlock's heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of Sherlock’s own, and which recommended him to his affection beyond everything else.

 

Victor Trevor’s society became gradually Sherlock’s most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Greg had unfortunately lacked.

 

In Mrs. Holmes' estimation he was as faultless as in Sherlock's; and Mycroft saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted his brother, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances. In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Mycroft could not approve, in spite of all that he and Sherlock could say in its support.

 

Sherlock began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized him at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy his ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable. Victor Trevor was all that his fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching him; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong.

 

Mrs. Holmes, too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had been raised by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as Greg Lestrade and Victor Trevor.

 

Captain Watson's partiality for Sherlock, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to Mycroft, when it ceased to be noticed by them. Their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which Captain Watson had incurred before any obvious partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility. Mycroft was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which Mrs. Hudson had assigned Captain Watson for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by Sherlock; and that however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of Mr. Trevor, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of Captain Watson. 

 

Mycroft saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively man of one and twenty? And as he could not even wish him successful, he heartily wished him indifferent. Mycroft liked Captain Watson, in spite of his gravity and reserve. His manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper. Sir Michael had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified Mycroft's belief of his being an unfortunate man, and he regarded him with respect and compassion.

 

Perhaps Mycroft pitied and esteemed Captain Watson the more because he was slighted by Victor Trevor and Sherlock, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.

 

"Watson is just the kind of man," said Victor Trevor one day, when they were talking of him together, "whom everybody speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to."

 

"That is exactly what I think of him," cried Sherlock.

 

"Do not boast of it, however," said Mycroft, "for it is injustice in both of you. He is highly esteemed by all the family at the manor, and I never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."

 

"That he is patronised by _you_ ," replied Victor Trevor, "is certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself. Who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as Lady Stamford, that could command the indifference of anybody else?"

 

"But perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and Sherlock will make amends for the regard of Lady Stamford, as well as her husband and her mother. If their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."

 

"In defence of your protege you can even be saucy."

 

"My protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always be valued by me. Yes, Sherlock, even in a man of thirty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my inquiries with the readiness of good-breeding and good nature."

 

"That is to say," cried Sherlock contemptuously, "he has told you that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are troublesome."

 

"He _would_ have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such inquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been previously informed."

 

"Perhaps," said Victor Trevor, "his observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins."

 

"I may venture to say that _his_ observations have stretched much further than your candour. But why should you dislike him?"

 

"I do not dislike him. I consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has everybody's good word, and nobody's notice; who has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year."

 

"Add to which," cried Sherlock, "that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit. That his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression."

 

"You decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied Mycroft, "and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the commendation I am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid. I can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and, I believe, possessing an amiable heart."

 

"Mr. Holmes," cried Victor Trevor, "you are now using me unkindly. You are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will. But it will not do. You shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful. I have three unanswerable reasons for disliking Captain Watson: he threatened me with rain when I wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle; and I cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told that I believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. And in return for such an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week: Mycroft and Captain Watson discuss Sherlock's Romantic Proclivities. Where will this all lead?


	10. Sherlock's Romantic Proclivities

Little had Mrs. Holmes or her sons imagined, when they first came into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Sherlock was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private balls at the manor then began; and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. 

 

In every meeting of the kind Victor Trevor was included; and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Holmes family, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Sherlock, of marking his animated admiration of him, and of receiving, in Sherlock’s behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of his affection.

 

Mycroft could not be surprised at their attachment. He only wished that it were less openly shown; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Sherlock. But Sherlock abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to him not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to commonplace and mistaken notions. Victor Trevor thought the same; and their behaviour at all times was an illustration of their opinions.

 

When Victor Trevor was present, Sherlock had no eyes for anyone else. Everything he did, was right. Everything he said, was clever. If their evenings at the manor were concluded with cards, Mr. Trevor cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get Sherlock a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to anybody else. Such conduct made them, of course, most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.

 

Mrs. Holmes entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them. To her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind.

 

This was the season of happiness to Sherlock. His heart was devoted to Victor Trevor, and the fond attachment to Musgrave Hall, which he brought with him from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than he had thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on their present home.

 

Mycroft's happiness was not so great. His heart was not so much at ease, nor his satisfaction in their amusements so pure. They afforded him no companion that could make amends for what he had left behind, nor that could teach him to think of Musgrave Hall with less regret than ever. 

 

Neither Sir Michael Stamford nor Mrs. Hudson could supply to him the conversation he missed, although they both were everlasting talkers, and from the first had regarded him with a kindness which ensured him a large share of their discourse. Sir Michael was outgoing and friendly to a fault, and yet never revealed any of his inner feelings. Mrs. Hudson, on the other hand, had already repeated her own history to Mycroft three or four times; and he had known very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Hudson's last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died. 

 

Lady Stamford was more agreeable than her husband and mother only in being more silent. Mycroft needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided everything were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home; and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.

 

In Captain Watson alone, of all his new acquaintance, did Mycroft find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Victor Trevor was out of the question. He was a lover; his attentions were wholly Sherlock's, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Captain Watson, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Sherlock, and in conversing with Mycroft he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of his brother.

 

Mycroft's compassion for Captain Watson increased, as he had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from him one evening at the manor, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint smile, "Your brother, I understand, does not approve of second attachments."

 

"No," replied Mycroft, "his opinions are all romantic."

 

"Or rather, as I believe, he considers them impossible to exist."

 

"I believe he does. But how he contrives it, without reflecting on the character of our own father, who was a widower before he married our mother, I know not. A few years, however, will settle his opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by anybody but himself."

 

"This will probably be the case," Captain Watson replied; "and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions."

 

"I cannot agree with you there," said Mycroft. "There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Sherlock's, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. His systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as his greatest possible advantage."

 

After a short pause, Captain Watson resumed the conversation by saying, "Does your brother make no distinction in his objections against a second attachment? Or is it equally criminal in everybody? Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?"

 

"Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiae of his principles. I only know that I never yet heard him admit any instance of a second attachment's being pardonable."

 

"This," said Captain Watson, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of sentiments — No, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous! I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your brother, who thought and judged like him, but who from an enforced change — from a series of unfortunate circumstances—"  

 

Here he stopped suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not otherwise have entered Mycroft's head. The lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had Captain Watson not behaved as though what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of past regard. 

 

Mycroft attempted no more. But Sherlock, in his place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed under his active deduction; and everything established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to changes in my personal life schedule, I'm planning to move my weekly updates of this fic from Wednesdays to Thursdays. So, you'll have to wait 8 days to find out what happens when Sherlock receives An Inappropriate Gift.


	11. An Inappropriate Gift

As Mycroft and Sherlock were walking together the next morning, the latter communicated a piece of news to his brother, which in spite of all that Mycroft knew before of Sherlock's imprudence and lack of consideration for propriety, surprised him by its extravagant testimony of both. Sherlock told him, with the greatest delight, that Victor Trevor had given him a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in Somersetshire. Without considering that it was not in their mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour of this gift, she must build a stable to receive it, and keep a servant to care for it, he had accepted the present without hesitation, and told his brother of it in raptures.

 

"He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it," Sherlock added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Mycroft, the delight of a gallop on some of these downs."

 

Most unwilling was Sherlock to awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some time he refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant, the expense would be a trifle; Mummy he was sure would never object to it; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. 

 

Mycroft then ventured to doubt the propriety of his receiving such a present from a man so little, or at least so lately known to him. This was too much.

 

"You are mistaken, Mycroft," said Sherlock hotly, "in supposing I know very little of Victor Trevor. I have not known him long, indeed, but I am much better acquainted with him than I am with any other creature in the world, except yourself and Mummy. It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy: it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from our cousin, than from Victor Trevor. Of James I know very little, though we lived together for six months; but of Victor my judgment has long been formed."

 

Mycroft thought it wisest to touch that point no more. He knew his brother's temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach him the more to his own opinion. But by an appeal to his affection for their mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she consented to this increase of establishment, Sherlock was shortly subdued; and he promised not to tempt their mother to such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Victor Trevor when he saw him next, that it must be declined.

 

Sherlock was faithful to his word; and when Victor Trevor called at the cottage, the same day, Mycroft heard him express his disappointment to him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present. The reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible. 

 

His concern, however, was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice, "But, Sherlock, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now. I shall keep it only till you can claim it. When you leave Baker to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, Queen Mab shall receive you."

 

This was all overheard by Mycroft; and in the whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing Sherlock by his given name alone, he instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them. From that moment, Mycroft doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that he, or any of their friends, should be left, by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident.

 

Sherrinford related something to Mycroft the next day, which placed this matter in a still clearer light. Victor Trevor had spent the preceding evening with them, and Sherrinford, by being left some time in the parlour with only him and Sherlock, had had opportunity for observations, which, with a most important face, he communicated to his eldest brother, when they were next by themselves.

 

"Oh, Mycroft!" he cried, "I have such a secret to tell you about Sherlock. I am sure he will be married to Mr. Trevor very soon."

 

"You have said so," replied Mycroft, "almost every day since they first met on High-church Down; and they had not known each other a week, I believe, before you were certain that Sherlock wore Victor Trevor’s picture round his neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle."

 

"But indeed this is quite another thing. I am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of Sherlock’s hair."

 

"Take care, Sherrinford. It may be only the hair of some great uncle of _his_."

 

"But, indeed, Mycroft, it is Sherlock's. I am almost sure it is, for I saw him cut it off. Last night after tea, when you and Mummy went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and Mr. Trevor seemed to be begging something of Sherlock, and presently he took up the scissors and cut off a lock of his hair; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book."

 

For such particulars, stated on such authority, Mycroft could not withhold his credit; nor was he disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what he had heard and seen himself.

 

Sherrinford's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to his eldest brother. When Mrs. Hudson asked him one evening at the manor, to give the name of the young man who was Mycroft's particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, Sherrinford answered by looking at his brother, and saying, "I must not tell, may I, Mycroft?"

 

This of course made everybody laugh; and Mycroft tried to laugh too. But the effort was painful. He was convinced that Sherrinford had fixed on a person whose name he could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with Mrs. Hudson.

 

Sherlock felt for him most sincerely; but he did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to Sherrinford, "Remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them."

 

"I never had any conjectures about it," replied Sherrinford. "It was you who told me of it yourself."

 

This increased the mirth of the company, and Sherrinford was eagerly pressed to say something more.

 

"Oh! Pray, Master Sherrinford, let us know all about it," said Mrs. Hudson. "What is the gentleman's name?"

 

"I must not tell, ma'am. But I know very well what it is; and I know where he is too."

 

"Yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at Musgrave to be sure. He is the curate of the parish I dare say."

 

"No, _that_ he is not. He is of no profession at all."

 

"Sherrinford," said Sherlock with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence."

 

"Well, then, he is lately dead, Sherlock, for I am sure there was such a man once, and his surname begins with an L."

 

Most grateful did Mycroft feel to Lady Stamford for observing aloud, at this moment, that it rained very hard, though he believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to him, than from her ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother. The topic of the weather, however, started by her, was immediately pursued by Captain Watson, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them. 

 

Victor Trevor opened the piano-forte, and asked Sherlock to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground. But not so easily did Mycroft recover from the alarm into which it had thrown him.

 

A party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from Baker, belonging to the sister and sister-in-law of Captain Watson, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietors, who were then abroad, had left strict orders on that head. The grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and Sir Michael, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them at least twice every summer for the last ten years. They contained a noble piece of water, a sail on which was to a form a great part of the morning's amusement. Cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and everything conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will be the outcome of this proposed excursion? Find out next week, when the Holmes brothers experience A Change of Plans.
> 
> I hope my change of posting day didn't throw anyone off too badly. Remember, this fic will now be updating every Thursday. :)


	12. A Change of Plans

Their intended excursion to Whitwell turned out very differently from what Mycroft had expected. It had appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; and he had persuaded Mrs. Holmes, who had already a cold, to stay at home. Mycroft himself was prepared to be wet through and fatigued; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all.

 

By ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at Baker Manor, where they were to breakfast. Though it had rained all night, the morning was rather favourable, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared. They were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.

 

While they were at breakfast the letters were brought in. Among the rest there was one for Captain Watson; he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.

 

"What is the matter with Watson?" said Sir Michael.

 

Nobody could tell.

 

"I hope he has had no bad news," said Lady Stamford. "It must be something extraordinary that could make Captain Watson leave my breakfast table so suddenly."

 

In about five minutes he returned.

 

"No bad news, Captain, I hope,” said Mrs. Hudson, as soon as he entered the room.

 

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."

 

"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is unwell."

 

"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."

 

"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Captain; so let us hear the truth of it."

 

"My dear madam," said Lady Stamford, "recollect what you are saying."

 

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin is married?" said Mrs. Hudson, without attending to her daughter's reproof.

 

"No, indeed, it is not."

 

"Well, then, I know who it is from, Captain. And I hope she is well."

 

"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" said he, colouring a little.

 

"Oh! You know who I mean."

 

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing Lady Stamford, "that I should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town."

 

"In town!" cried Mrs. Hudson. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?"

 

"My own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."

 

What a blow upon them all was this!

 

"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Captain Watson," said Sherlock, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"

 

He shook his head in evident regret.

 

"We must go," said Sir Michael. "It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till tomorrow, Watson, that is all."

 

"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day.”

 

"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Hudson, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."

 

"You would not be six hours later," said Victor Trevor, "if you were to defer your journey till our return."

 

"I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour." 

 

Mycroft then heard Victor Trevor say, in a low voice to Sherlock, "There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Watson is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing."

 

"I have no doubt of it," replied Sherlock.

 

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Watson, I know of old," said Sir Michael, "when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Holmes brothers walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Trevor got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."

 

Captain Watson again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable.

 

"Well, then, when will you come back again?"

 

"I hope we shall see you at Baker," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to Whitwell till you return."

 

"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."

 

"Oh! He must and shall come back," cried Sir Michael. "If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him."

 

"Aye, so do, Sir Michael," cried Mrs. Hudson, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is."

 

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of."

 

Captain Watson's horses were announced.

 

"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" added Sir Michael.

 

"No. Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."

 

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind."

 

"I assure you it is not in my power."

 

He then took leave of the whole party.

 

"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your brothers in town this winter, Mr. Holmes?” Captain Watson asked.

 

"I am afraid, none at all,” Mycroft replied.

 

"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do."

 

To Sherlock, he merely bowed and said nothing.

 

"Come Captain," said Mrs. Hudson, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about."

 

He wished her a good morning, and, attended by Sir Michael, left the room.

 

The complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.

 

"I can guess what his business is, however," said Mrs. Hudson exultingly.

 

"Can you, ma'am?" said almost everybody.

 

"Yes; it is about Miss Morstan, I am sure."

 

"And who is Miss Morstan?" asked Sherlock.

 

"What! Do not you know who Miss Rosamund Morstan is? I am sure you must have heard of her before. She is the Captain’s ward.”

 

"Indeed!"

 

"Oh, yes. I dare say the Captain will leave her all his fortune,” said Mrs. Hudson. “If he does not marry, that is,” she added, with a sly look at Sherlock.

 

When Sir Michael returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding, however, by observing that as they were all together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed that although true happiness could only be enjoyed at Whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country. 

 

The carriages were then ordered; Victor Trevor's was first, and Sherlock never looked happier than when he got into it. They drove through the manor very fast, and were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest. They both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs.

 

It was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that everybody should be extremely merry all day long. Some more of the Careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which Sir Michael observed with great contentment. 

 

Victor Trevor took his usual place between the two elder Holmes brothers. Mrs. Hudson sat on Mycroft's right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind him and Victor Trevor, and said to Sherlock, loud enough for them both to hear, "I have found you out in spite of all your tricks. I know where you spent the morning."

 

Sherlock coloured, and replied very hastily, "Where, pray?" 

 

"Did not you know," said Victor Trevor, "that we had been out in my curricle?"

 

"Yes, yes, Mr. Impudence, I know that very well, and I was determined to find out _where_ you had been to. I hope you like your house, Master Sherlock. It is a very large one, I know; and when I come to see you, I hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when I was there six years ago."

 

Sherlock turned away in great confusion. Mrs. Hudson laughed heartily; and Mycroft found that in her resolution to know where they had been, she had actually made her own maid enquire of Mr. Trevor's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that they had gone to Allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking about the garden and going all over the house.

 

Mycroft could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that Victor Trevor should propose, or Sherlock consent, to enter the house while Lady Smallwood was in it, with whom Sherlock had not the slightest acquaintance.

 

As soon as they left the dining-room, Mycroft enquired of him about it; and great was his surprise when he found that every circumstance related by Mrs. Hudson was perfectly true. Sherlock was quite angry with him for doubting it.

 

"Why should you imagine, Mycroft, that we did not go there, or that we did not see the house? Is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?"

 

"Yes, Sherlock, but I would not go while Lady Smallwood was there, and with no other companion than Mr. Trevor."

 

"Mr. Trevor, however, is the only person who can have a right to show that house; and as we went in an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion. I never spent a pleasanter morning in my life."

 

"I am afraid," replied Mycroft, "that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety."

 

"On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Mycroft; for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure."

 

"But, my dear brother, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?"

 

"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Hudson are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Lady Smallwood's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr. Trevor's, and — "

 

"If they were one day to be your own, Sherlock, you would not be justified in what you have done."

 

Sherlock blushed at this hint; but it was visibly gratifying to him; and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, he came to his brother again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Mycroft, it _was_ rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Trevor wanted particularly to show me the place; and it is a charming house, I assure you.

 

“There is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful. It is a corner room, and has windows on two sides. On one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often admired. I did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture, but if it were newly fitted up it would be one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in England."

 

Could Mycroft have listened to him without interruption from the others, Sherlock would have described every room in the house with equal delight. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What news could have drawn Captain Watson away to town so suddenly? There will be much speculation on that score in the next chapter, as well as on the question of Victor Trevor's Attachment to Sherlock.
> 
> While you await the next installment, you might want to check out two new little songs which I have rewritten with Johnlockified lyrics. [Are You Sleeping?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15868038) (rated teen) is to the tune of "Frère Jacques" and [Dilly-Dally](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15899055) (rated explicit) is to the tune of "Lavender's Blue."
> 
> Also, in case you missed it, I've added a second chapter to [John Watson and the Curse of the Were-Kitten](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12293157) (rated G) to showcase the delightful artwork gifted to me by chainedtothemirror.


	13. Victor Trevor's Attachment

The sudden termination of Captain Watson's visit at the manor, with his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind and raised the wonder of Mrs. Hudson for two or three days; she was a great wonderer, as everyone must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all their acquaintance. She wondered, with little intermission, what could be the reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all.

 

"Something very melancholy must be the matter, I am sure," said she. "I could see it in his face. Poor man! I am afraid his circumstances may be bad. I do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be? I wonder whether it is so. Perhaps it is about Miss Morstan and, by the bye, I dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when I mentioned her. Maybe she is ill in town. I would lay any wager it is about Miss Morstan. It is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure has such a large estate. I wonder what it can be! Maybe his sister is ill at Avignon, and has sent for him over. His setting off in such a hurry seems very like it. Well, I wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart."

 

So wondered, so talked Mrs. Hudson, her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose. Mycroft, though he felt really interested in the welfare of Captain Watson, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away which Mrs. Hudson was desirous of his feeling; for besides the fact that the circumstance did not in his opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, his wonder was otherwise disposed of. 

 

Mycroft’s attention was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of his brother and Victor Trevor on the subject of their relationship, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all. As this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both. Why they should not openly acknowledge, to his mother and himself, the engagement which their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, Mycroft could not imagine.

 

He could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though Victor Trevor was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich. His estate had been rated by Sir Michael at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty. However, for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, Mycroft could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered his mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent his making any inquiry of Sherlock.

 

Nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than Victor Trevor's behaviour. To Sherlock it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother. The cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at Allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the manor, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of Sherlock, and by his favourite pointer at his feet.

 

One evening in particular, about a week after Captain Watson left the country, Victor Trevor’s heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on Mrs. Holmes' happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him.

 

"What!" he exclaimed. “Improve this dear cottage! No. _That_ I will never consent to. Not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded."

 

"Do not be alarmed," said Mycroft. "Nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."

 

"I am heartily glad of it," he cried. "May she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better."

 

"Thank you, Mr. Trevor,” said Mrs. Holmes, smiling. “But you may be assured that I would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of anyone whom I loved, for all the improvements in the world. Depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when I make up my accounts in the spring, I would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you. But are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?"

 

"I am," said he. "To me it is faultless. Nay, more, I consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were I rich enough I would instantly pull Combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage."

 

"With dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, I suppose," said Mycroft.

 

"Yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and everything belonging to it. In no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible. Then, and then only, under such a roof, I might perhaps be as happy at Combe as I have been at Baker."

 

"I flatter myself," replied Mycroft, "that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."

 

"There certainly are circumstances," said Mr. Trevor, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share."

 

Mrs. Holmes looked with pleasure at Sherlock, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on Victor Trevor, as plainly denoted how well he understood him.

 

"How often did I wish," added he, "when I was at Allenham this time twelvemonth, that Baker Cottage were inhabited! I never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it. How little did I then think that the very first news I should hear from Lady Smallwood, when I next came into the country, would be that Baker Cottage was taken: and I felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness I should experience from it can account for. 

 

“Must it not have been so, Sherlock?" he added, speaking to him in a lowered voice. 

 

Then continuing his former tone, he said, "And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Holmes? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement! And this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and everybody would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford."

 

Mrs. Holmes again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted.

 

"You are a good woman," he warmly replied. "Your promise makes me easy. Extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy. Tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that I shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me."

 

The promise was readily given, and Victor Trevor's behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.

 

"Shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?" asked Mrs. Holmes, when he was leaving them. "I do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the manor, to call on Lady Stamford."

 

He engaged to be with them by four o'clock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything seems so promising for Sherlock's future happiness with Victor - yet appearances may be deceiving. What might occur to interfere with the proposed four o'clock dinner engagement? Find out next week, when Victor Trevor Departs.
> 
> Meanwhile, you might enjoy my latest ficlet: [Black London Cab](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15942473).


	14. Victor Trevor Departs

Mrs. Holmes' visit to Lady Stamford took place the next day, and two of her sons went with her; but Sherlock excused himself from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and his mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by Victor Trevor the night before of calling on him while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with his remaining at home.

 

On their return from the manor, they found Victor Trevor's curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and Mrs. Holmes was convinced that her conjecture had been just. So far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect. They were no sooner in the passage than Sherlock came hastily out of the parlour, apparently in violent affliction, with his handkerchief at his eyes; and without noticing them ran upstairs. 

 

Surprised and alarmed, they proceeded directly into the room he had just quitted, where they found only Victor Trevor, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his back towards them. He turned round on their coming in, and his countenance showed that he strongly partook of the emotion which over-powered Sherlock.

 

"Is anything the matter with him?" cried Mrs. Holmes as she entered. "Is he ill?"

 

"I hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced smile presently added, "It is I who may rather expect to be ill — for I am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!"

 

"Disappointment?"

 

"Yes, for I am unable to keep my engagement with you. Lady Smallwood has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business to London. I have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of Allenham; and I am now come to take my farewell of you."

 

"To London! And are you going this morning?"

 

"Almost this moment."

 

"This is very unfortunate. But Lady Smallwood must be obliged; and her business will not detain you from us long, I hope."

 

He coloured as he replied, "You are very kind, but I have no idea of returning into Devonshire immediately. My visits to Lady Smallwood are never repeated within the twelvemonth."

 

"And is Lady Smallwood your only friend? Is Allenham the only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome? For shame, Mr. Trevor. Can you wait for an invitation here?"

 

His colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only replied, "You are too good."

 

Mrs. Holmes looked at Mycroft with surprise. Mycroft felt equal amazement. For a few moments everyone was silent. Mrs. Holmes first spoke.

 

"I have only to add, my dear Mr. Trevor, that at Baker Cottage you will always be welcome; for I will not press you to return here immediately, because you only can judge how far _that_ might be pleasing to Lady Smallwood; and on this head I shall be no more disposed to question your judgment than to doubt your inclination."

 

"My engagements at present," replied Victor Trevor, confusedly, "are of such a nature — that — I dare not flatter myself —" 

 

He stopped. Mrs. Holmes was too much astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded. This was broken by Victor Trevor, who said with a faint smile, "It is folly to linger in this manner. I will not torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy."

 

He then hastily took leave of them all and left the room. They saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.

 

Mrs. Holmes felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned.

 

Mycroft's uneasiness was at least equal to his mother's. He thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust. Victor Trevor's behaviour in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept his mother's invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed him. 

 

One moment Mycroft feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and Sherlock. The distress in which his brother had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when he considered what Sherlock's love for Victor Trevor was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.

 

But whatever might be the particulars of their separation, his brother's affliction was indubitable; and Mycroft thought with the tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which Sherlock was in all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty.

 

In about half an hour his mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncheerful.

 

"Our dear Victor Trevor is now some miles from Baker, Mycroft," said she, as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?"

 

"It is all very strange. Last night he was with us, so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate. And now, after only ten minutes notice, he is gone. Gone, too, without intending to return! Something more than what he owned to us must have happened. He did not speak, he did not behave like himself. _You_ must have seen the difference as well as I. What can it be? Can they have quarrelled? Why else should he have shown such unwillingness to accept your invitation here?" 

 

"It was not inclination that he wanted, Mycroft; I could plainly see _that_. He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over, I assure you, and I can perfectly account for everything that at first seemed strange to me as well as to you."

 

"Can you, indeed!"

 

"Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way. But you, Mycroft, who love to doubt where you can — it will not satisfy _you_ , I know. But you shall not talk _me_ out of my trust in it. I am persuaded that Lady Smallwood suspects his regard for Sherlock, disapproves of it (perhaps because she has other views for him) and on that account is eager to get him away; and that the business which she sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him. This is what I believe to have happened. 

 

“He is, moreover, aware that she _does_ disapprove the connection. He dares not, therefore, at present, confess to her his engagement with Sherlock, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give in to her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while. You will tell me, I know, that this may or may _not_ have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Mycroft, what have you to say?"

 

"Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."

 

"Then you would have told me that it might or might not have happened. Oh, Mycroft, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for Sherlock, and guilt for poor Victor Trevor, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved to think him blamable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shown. 

 

“Is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? To the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?"

 

"I can hardly tell myself. But suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him. There is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of everybody. Victor Trevor may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and I will hope that he has. But it would have been more like him to acknowledge them at once. Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him."

 

"Do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the deviation is necessary. But you really do admit the justice of what I have said in his defence? I am happy — and he is acquitted."

 

"Not entirely. It may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they _are_ engaged) from Lady Smallwood — and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for Victor Trevor to be but little in Devonshire at present. But this is no excuse for their concealing it from _us_."

 

"Concealing it from us! My dear child, do you accuse Victor Trevor and Sherlock of concealment? This is strange indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every day for incautiousness."

 

"I want no proof of their _affection_ ," said Mycroft; "but of their _engagement_ I do."

 

"I am perfectly satisfied of both."

 

"Yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of them."

 

"I have not wanted syllables, where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Sherlock, and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and considered him as his future husband, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? 

 

“My Mycroft, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Victor Trevor, persuaded as he must be of your brother's love, should leave him, and leave him perhaps for months, without telling him of his affection — that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?"

 

"I confess," replied Mycroft, "that every circumstance except _one_ is in favour of their engagement; but that _one_ is the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."

 

"How strange this is! You must think wretchedly indeed of Victor Trevor, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together. Has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your brother all this time? Do you suppose him really indifferent?"

 

"No, I cannot think that. He must and does love Sherlock, I am sure."

 

"But with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave him with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him."

 

"You must remember, my dear mother, that I have never considered this matter as certain. I have had my doubts, I confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away. If we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."

 

"A mighty concession indeed! If you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married. Ungracious boy! But I require no such proof. Nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved. You cannot doubt your brother's wishes. It must be Victor Trevor therefore whom you suspect. But why? Is he not a man of honour and feeling? Has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm? Can he be deceitful?"

 

"I hope not, I believe not," said Mycroft. "Suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me. It has been involuntary, and I will not encourage it. I was startled, I confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality. But all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed. 

 

“He had just parted from Sherlock, had seen him leave in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending Lady Smallwood, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed. In such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour, I think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but I will not raise objections against anyone's conduct on so illiberal a foundation as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what I may think right and consistent."

 

"You speak very properly. Victor Trevor certainly does not deserve to be suspected. Though _we_ have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage? Had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case. It is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable."

 

They were interrupted by the entrance of Sherrinford; and Mycroft was then at liberty to think over the representations of his mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.

 

They saw nothing of Sherlock till dinner time, when he entered the room and took his place at the table without saying a word. His eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if his tears were even then restrained with difficulty. He avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on his mother's silently pressing his hand with tender compassion, his small degree of fortitude was quite overcome. He burst into tears and left the room.

 

This violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening. Sherlock was without any power, because he was without any desire, of command over himself. The slightest mention of anything relative to Victor Trevor overpowered him in an instant; and though his family were most anxiously attentive to his comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which his feelings connected with Victor Trevor. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes brothers have been experiencing more than their fair share of misery, lately. But things will be looking up next week - for one of them, at least - when Greg Lestrade Arrives for a Visit.


	15. Greg Lestrade Arrives for a Visit

Sherlock would have thought himself very inexcusable had he been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Victor Trevor. He would have been ashamed to look his family in the face the next morning, had he not risen from his bed in more need of repose than when he lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left him in no danger of incurring it. He was awake the whole night, and he wept the greatest part of it. He got up with a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment; giving pain every moment to his mother and brothers, and forbidding all attempt at consolation from either. His sensibility was potent enough!

 

When breakfast was over, Sherlock walked out by himself, and wandered about the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

 

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling. Sherlock played over every favourite song that he had been used to play to Victor Trevor, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out, till his heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained.

 

This nourishment of grief was every day applied. Sherlock spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; his voice often totally suspended by his tears. When he rose from that instrument, he took up his violin, and played his own most melancholy compositions. In books too, as well as in music, he courted the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving. He read nothing but what they had been used to read together.

 

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported forever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments, to which Sherlock daily recurred, his solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.

 

No letter from Victor Trevor came; and none seemed expected by Sherlock. His mother was surprised, and Mycroft again became uneasy. But Mrs. Holmes could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself.

 

"Remember, Mycroft," said she, "how very often Sir Michael fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them to it. We have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through Sir Michael's hands."

 

Mycroft could not deny the truth of this, and he tried to find in it a motive sufficient for their silence. But there was one method so direct, so simple, and in his opinion so eligible, of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that he could not help suggesting it to their mother.

 

"Why do you not ask Sherlock at once," said he, "whether he is or he is not engaged to Victor Trevor? From you, his mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence. It would be the natural result of your affection for him. He used to be all unreserve, and to you more especially."

 

"I would not ask such a question for the world. Supposing it possible that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry inflict! At any rate it would be most ungenerous. I should never deserve his confidence again, after forcing from him a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to anyone. I know Sherlock's heart: I know that he dearly loves me, and that I shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible. I would not attempt to force the confidence of anyone; of a child much less; because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which his wishes might direct."

 

Mycroft thought this generosity overstrained, considering his brother's youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Holmes' romantic delicacy.

 

It was several days before Victor Trevor's name was mentioned before Sherlock by any of his family; Sir Michael and Mrs. Hudson, indeed, were not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour; but one evening, Mrs. Holmes, accidentally taking up a volume of Shakespeare, exclaimed,

 

"We have never finished Hamlet, Sherlock; our dear Victor Trevor went away before we could get through it. We will put it by, that when he comes again… But it may be months, perhaps, before _that_ happens."

 

"Months!" cried Sherlock, with strong surprise. "No — nor many weeks."

 

Mrs. Holmes was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Mycroft pleasure, as it produced a reply from Sherlock so expressive of confidence in Victor Trevor and knowledge of his intentions.

 

One morning, about a week later, Sherlock was prevailed on to join his brothers in their usual walk, instead of wandering away by himself. Hitherto he had carefully avoided every companion in his rambles. If his brothers intended to walk on the downs, he directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, he was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found when the others set off. But at length he was secured by the exertions of Mycroft, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion. 

 

They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for Sherlock's mind could not be controlled, and Mycroft, satisfied with gaining one point, would not then attempt more. Beyond the entrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first coming to Baker lay before them; and on reaching that point, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any of their walks before.

 

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them. In a few minutes they could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards Sherlock rapturously exclaimed,

 

"It is he — it is indeed! I know it is!" and was hastening to meet him, when Mycroft cried out,

 

"Indeed, Sherlock, I think you are mistaken. It is not Victor Trevor. The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."

 

"He has, he has," cried Sherlock, "I am sure he has. His air, his coat, his horse. I knew how soon he would come."

 

He walked eagerly on as he spoke; and Mycroft, to screen Sherlock from particularity, as he felt almost certain of its not being Victor Trevor, quickened his pace and kept up with him. They were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman. 

 

Sherlock looked again. His heart sunk within him; and abruptly turning round, he was hurrying back, when the voices of both his brothers were raised to detain him. A third, almost as well known as Victor Trevor's, joined them in begging him to stop, and he turned round with surprise to see and welcome Greg Lestrade.

 

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be forgiven for not being Victor Trevor; the only one who could have gained a smile from him; but he dispersed his tears to smile on him, and in his brother's happiness forgot for a time his own disappointment.

 

Greg dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, began walking back with them toward Baker, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.

 

He was welcomed by all three Holmes brothers with great cordiality, but especially by Sherlock, who showed more warmth of regard in his reception of him than even Mycroft himself. To Sherlock, indeed, the meeting between Greg and his brother was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which he had often observed at Musgrave Hall in their mutual behaviour. 

 

On Greg's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion. He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by questions, and distinguished Mycroft by no mark of affection. Sherlock saw and listened with increasing surprise. He began almost to feel a dislike of Greg; and it ended, as every feeling must end with him, by carrying back his thoughts to Victor Trevor, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother-in-law elect.

 

After a short silence, which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries of meeting, Sherlock asked Greg if he came directly from London. No, he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

 

"A fortnight!" Sherlock repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same county with Mycroft without seeing him before.

 

Greg looked rather distressed as he added that he had been staying with some friends near Plymouth.

 

"Have you been lately in Sussex?" asked Mycroft.

 

"I was at Musgrave Hall about a month ago."

 

"And how does dear, dear Musgrave Hall look?" cried Sherlock.

 

"Dear, dear Musgrave Hall," said Mycroft, "probably looks much as it always does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves."

 

"Oh," cried Sherlock, "with what transporting sensation have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight."

 

"It is not everyone," said Mycroft, "who has your passion for dead leaves."

 

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But _sometimes_ they are." 

 

As Sherlock said this, he sunk into a reverie for a few moments; but rousing himself again, "Now, Greg," said he, calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Baker valley. Look up to it, and be tranquil if you can. Look at those hills! Did you ever see their equals? To the left is Baker Manor, amongst those woods and plantations. You may see the end of the house. And there, beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."

 

"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but it must be muddy in winter."

 

"How can you think of mud, with such objects before you?"

 

"Because," replied Greg, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before me, I see a very dirty lane."

 

"How strange!" said Sherlock to himself as he walked on.

 

"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here? Are the Stamfords pleasant people?"

 

"No, not all," answered Sherlock; "we could not be more unfortunately situated."

 

“Sherlock!" cried his brother. "How can you say so? How can you be so unjust? They are a very respectable family; and towards us have behaved in the friendliest manner. Have you forgot, Sherlock, how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"

 

"No," said Sherlock, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments."

 

Mycroft took no notice of this; and directing his attention to their visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by talking of their present residence, and extorting from him occasional questions and remarks. Greg’s coldness and reserve mortified him severely; he was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate his behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, Mycroft avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him as he thought he ought to be treated from the family connection. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft are finally reunited. But what could explain the lack of delight they appear to be taking in each other's company? Tune in next week to see if we can discover why Greg Lestrade is Not in Good Spirits.


	16. Greg Lestrade is Not in Good Spirits

Mrs. Holmes was surprised only for a moment at seeing Greg Lestrade; for his coming to Baker Cottage was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural. Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder. He received the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against such a reception. They had begun to fail him before he entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs. Holmes. 

 

Mycroft had the satisfaction of seeing Greg soon become more like himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in good spirits, however. He praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive, and kind; but still he was not in good spirits. The whole family perceived it, and Mrs. Holmes, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents.

 

"What are Mrs. Lestrade's views for you at present, Greg?" said she, when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire. "Are you still to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"

 

"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than inclination for a public life!"

 

"But how is your fame to be established? For famous you must be to satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no affection for strangers, and no profession, you may find it a difficult matter."

 

"I shall not attempt it. I have no wish to be distinguished; and have every reason to hope I never shall be. Thank heaven I cannot be forced into genius and eloquence."

 

"You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate."

 

"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as well as everybody else to be perfectly happy; but, like everybody else it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so."

 

"Strange that it would!" cried Sherlock. "What have wealth or grandeur to do with happiness?"

 

"Grandeur has but little," said Mycroft, "but wealth has much to do with it."

 

"Mycroft, for shame!" said Sherlock. "Money can only give happiness where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."

 

"Perhaps," said Mycroft, smiling, "we may come to the same point. _Your_ competence and _my_ wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than mine. Come, what is your competence?"

 

"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than that."

 

Mycroft laughed. " _Two_ thousand a year! _One_ is my wealth! I guessed how it would end."

 

"And yet two thousand a year is a very moderate income," said Sherlock. "A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller. I am sure I am not extravagant in my demands. A proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."

 

Mycroft smiled again, to hear his brother describing so accurately his and Victor Trevor’s future expenses at Combe Magna.

 

"Hunters!" repeated Greg. "But why must you have hunters? Everybody does not hunt."

 

Sherlock coloured as he replied, "But most people do."

 

"I wish," said Sherrinford, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!"

 

“Oh, that they would!" cried Sherlock, his eyes sparkling with animation, and his cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness.

 

"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Mycroft, "in spite of the insufficiency of wealth."

 

"Oh dear!" cried Sherrinford. "How happy I should be! I wonder what I should do with it!"

 

Sherlock looked as if he had no doubt on that point.

 

"I should be puzzled as to how to spend a large fortune myself," said Mrs. Holmes, "if my children were all to be rich without my help."

 

"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Mycroft, "and your difficulties will soon vanish."

 

"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," said Greg, "in such an event! What a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops! You, Mycroft, would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you — and as for Sherlock, I know his greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in London to content him. And books! — Thomson, Cowper, Scott — he would buy them all over and over again: he would buy up every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and he would have every book that tells him how to admire an old twisted tree. Should not you, Sherlock? Forgive me, if I am very saucy. But I was willing to show you that I had not forgot our old disputes."

 

"I love to be reminded of the past, Greg — whether it be melancholy or gay, I love to recall it — and you will never offend me by talking of former times. You are very right in supposing how my money would be spent — some of it, at least; my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books."

 

"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their heirs."

 

"No, Greg, I should have something else to do with it."

 

"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life. Your opinion on that point is unchanged, I presume?"

 

"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed. It is not likely that I should now see or hear anything to change them."

 

"Sherlock is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Mycroft. "He is not at all altered."

 

"He is only grown a little more grave than he was."

 

"Nay, Greg," said Sherlock, "you need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself."

 

"Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh. "But gaiety never was a part of _my_ character."

 

"Nor do I think it a part of Sherlock's," said Mycroft. "I should hardly call him a cheerful character. He is very earnest, very eager in all he does — sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation — but he is not often really merry."

 

"I believe you are right," Greg replied. "And yet I have always set him down as gay."

 

"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said Mycroft, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated. Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge."

 

"But I thought it was right, Mycroft," said Sherlock, with false solemnity, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people. I thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of our neighbours. This has always been your doctrine, I am sure."

 

"No, Sherlock, never. My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding. All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning. I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"

 

"You have not been able to bring your brother over to your plan of general civility," said Greg to Mycroft. "Do you gain no ground?"

 

"Quite the contrary," replied Mycroft, looking expressively at Sherlock.

 

"My judgment," Greg returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I am afraid my practice is much more on your brother's. I never wish to offend, but I am afraid that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural shyness. I have frequently thought that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company; I am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"

 

"Sherlock has not shyness to excuse any inattention of his," said Mycroft.

 

"He knows his own worth too well for false shame," replied Greg. "Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy."

 

"But you would still be reserved," said Sherlock, "and that is worse."

 

Greg started. "Reserved! Am I reserved, Sherlock?"

 

"Yes, very."

 

"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring. "Reserved! How — in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?"

 

Mycroft looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, said, "Do not you know my brother well enough to understand what he means? Do not you know he calls everyone reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what he admires as rapturously as himself?"

 

Greg made no answer. His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent — and he sat for some time silent and dull. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next week, when Deductions of Interest are Made.


	17. Deductions of Interest are Made

Mycroft saw, with great uneasiness, the low spirits of their guest. His visit afforded but a very partial satisfaction, while Greg’s own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect. It was evident that he was unhappy; Mycroft wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished him by the same affection which once he had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of Greg’s preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.

 

Greg joined Mycroft and Sherlock in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Sherlock, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as he could, soon left them to themselves. But before he was half way upstairs he heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Greg himself come out.

 

"I am going into the village to see my horses," said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently."

 

 ***

 

Greg returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country. In his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him. This was a subject which ensured Sherlock's attention, and he was beginning to describe his own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when Greg interrupted him by saying, 

 

"You must not enquire too far, Sherlock. Remember, I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country, because it unites beauty with utility — and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque."

 

"I am afraid it is but too true," said Sherlock. "But why should you boast of it?"

 

"I suspect," said Mycroft, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, Greg here falls into another. Because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses. He is fastidious, and will have an affectation of his own."

 

"It is very true," said Sherlock, "that admiration of landscape scenery has become a mere jargon. Everybody pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was. I detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning."

 

"I am convinced," said Greg, "that you really feel all the delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel. But, in return, your brother must allow me to feel no more than I profess. I like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque principles. I do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees. I admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing. I do not like ruined, tattered cottages. I am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms. I have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower — and a troop of tidy, happy villagers please me better than the finest bandits in the world."

 

Sherlock looked with amazement at Greg, and with compassion at his brother. Mycroft only laughed.

 

Before the middle of the day, they were visited by Sir Michael and Mrs. Hudson, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came to take a survey of the guest. With the assistance of his mother-in-law, Sir Michael was not long in discovering that the name of Lestrade began with an L, and this prepared a future mine of raillery against the devoted Mycroft, which nothing but the newness of their acquaintance with Greg could have prevented from being immediately sprung. But, as it was, he only learned, from some very significant looks, how far their penetration, founded on Sherrinford's indiscretion, extended.

 

Sir Michael never came to Baker Cottage without either inviting the Holmes family to dine at the manor the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening. On the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage them for both.

 

"You _must_ drink tea with us to night," said he, "for we shall be quite alone — and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a large party."

 

Mrs. Hudson enforced the necessity. "And who knows but you may raise a dance," said she. "And that will tempt _you_ , Master Sherlock."

 

"A dance!" cried Sherlock. "Impossible! Who is to dance?"

 

"Who! Why, yourselves, and the Careys, and Whitakers, to be sure. What! You thought nobody could dance because a certain person who shall be nameless is gone?”

 

"I wish with all my soul," cried Sir Michael, "that Victor Trevor were among us again."

 

This, and Sherlock's blushing, gave new suspicions to Greg. "And who is Victor Trevor?" said he, in a low voice, to Mycroft, by whom he was sitting.

 

Mycroft gave him a brief reply. Sherlock's countenance was more communicative. 

 

Greg saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of others, but such of Sherlock's expressions as had puzzled him before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round to him, and said, in a whisper, "I have been deducing, as you are so fond of doing. Shall I tell you my deduction?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Shall I tell you?”

 

"Certainly."

 

"Well then; I deduce that Mr. Trevor hunts."

 

Sherlock was surprised and confused, yet he could not help smiling at the quiet archness of Greg’s manner, and after a moment's silence, said,

 

"Oh, Greg! How can you? — But the time will come I hope… I am sure you will like him."

 

"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at Sherlock’s earnestness and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of his acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing between Mr. Trevor and Sherlock, he would not have ventured to mention it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, there will be a Departure and an Arrival. Can you predict who will be coming and going?


	18. A Departure and an Arrival

Greg remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by Mrs. Holmes to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at the height. His spirits, during the last two or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved. He grew more and more partial to the house and environs — never spoke of going away without a sigh — declared his time to be wholly disengaged — even doubted to what place he should go when he left them — but still, go he must. 

 

Never had any week passed so quickly — he could hardly believe it to be gone. He said so repeatedly. Other things he said, too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions. He had no pleasure at Musgrave Hall; he detested being in town; but either to Musgrave Hall or London he must go. He valued their kindness beyond anything, and his greatest happiness was in being with them. Yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.

 

Mycroft placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to Mrs. Lestrade’s account; and it was happy for him that Greg had a mother whose character was so imperfectly known to him as to be the general excuse for everything strange on the part of her son. Disappointed, however, and vexed as he was, and sometimes displeased with Greg’s uncertain behaviour to himself, Mycroft was very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications which had been rather more painfully extorted from him, for Victor Trevor's service, by his mother. 

 

Greg’s want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better knowledge of Mrs. Lestrade's disposition and designs. The shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother. The old well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child, was the cause of all. 

 

Mycroft would have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield — when Mrs. Lestrade would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy. But from such vain wishes he was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of his confidence in Greg's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at Baker Cottage.

 

"I think, Greg," said Mrs. Holmes, as they were at breakfast the last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions. Some inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it — you would not be able to give them so much of your time. But,” she continued with a smile, “you would be materially benefited in one particular at least — you would know where to go when you left them."

 

"I do assure you," he replied, "that I have long thought on this point, as you think now. I always preferred the church, as I still do. But that was not smart enough for my family. They recommended the army. That was a great deal too smart for me. As for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but I was too old when the subject was first started to enter it — and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as I might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing. I was therefore entered at Oxford and have been properly idle ever since."

 

"Come, come, Greg,” said Mrs. Holmes. “You are in a melancholy humour. But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by everybody at times, whatever be their education or state. Know your own happiness. You lack nothing but patience — or, to give it a more fascinating name, call it hope. Your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it must ere long become her happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much may not a few months do?"

 

"I think," replied Greg, "that I may defy many months to produce any good to me."

 

This desponding turn of mind, though it could not be caught by Mrs. Holmes, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on Mycroft's feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue. But as it was his determination to subdue it, and to prevent himself from appearing to suffer more than what all his family suffered on Greg’s going away, he did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by Sherlock, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix his sorrow, by seeking silence, solitude, and idleness. Their means were as different as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.

 

Mycroft sat down to his drawing-table as soon as Greg was out of the house, busily employed himself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest himself almost as much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, he did not lessen his own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase, and his mother and brothers were spared much solicitude on his account.

 

Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of his own, appeared no more meritorious to Sherlock, than his own had seemed faulty to him. The business of self-command he settled very easily: with strong affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit. That his brother's affections _were_ calm, he dared not deny, though he frowned to acknowledge it; and of the strength of his own, he gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that brother, in spite of this mortifying conviction.

 

Without shutting himself up from his family, or leaving the house in determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to indulge in melancholy meditation, Mycroft found every day afforded him leisure enough to think of Greg, and of Greg's behaviour, in every possible variety which the different state of his spirits at different times could produce: with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt. There were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of his mother and brothers, at least by the nature of their employments, conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was produced. His mind was inevitably at liberty; his thoughts could not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting, must be before him, must force his attention, and engross his memory, his reflection, and his fancy.

 

From a reverie of this kind, as he sat at his drawing-table, Mycroft was roused one morning, soon after Greg's leaving them, by the arrival of company. He happened to be quite alone. The closing of the little gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew his eyes to the window, and he saw a large party walking up to the door. Amongst them were Sir Michael and Lady Stamford and Mrs. Hudson, but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown to him. 

 

Mycroft was sitting near the window, and as soon as Sir Michael perceived him, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged Mycroft to open the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heard at the other.

 

"Well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers. How do you like them?"

 

"Hush! They will hear you."

 

"Never mind if they do. It is only Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins. Janine is very pretty, I can tell you. You may see her if you look this way."

 

As Mycroft was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without taking that liberty, he begged to be excused.

 

"Where is Sherlock? Has he run away because we are come? I see his piano-forte is open."

 

"He is walking, I believe."

 

They were now joined by Mrs. Hudson, who had not patience enough to wait till the door was opened by a servant before she told _her_ story. She came hallooing to the window. 

 

"How do you do, my dear? How does your mother do? And where are your brothers? What! All alone! You will be glad of a little company to sit with you. I have brought my other daughter and son-in-law to see you. Only think of their coming so suddenly! I thought I heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that it could be them. I thought of nothing but whether it might not be Captain Watson come back again. So I said to Sir Michael, ‘I do think I hear a carriage; perhaps it is Captain Watson come back again —’" 

 

Mycroft was obliged to turn away from her, in the middle of her story, to receive the rest of the party, who had now been shown in by the servant. Lady Stamford introduced the two strangers; Mrs. Holmes and Sherrinford came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while Mrs. Hudson continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour, attended by Sir Michael.

 

Mrs. Hawkins was several years younger than Lady Stamford, and totally unlike her sister in every respect. She had a very pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be. Her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but they were much more prepossessing. She came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away. 

 

Her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased. He entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as long as he stayed.

 

Mrs. Hawkins, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her admiration of the parlour and everything in it burst forth.

 

"Well! What a delightful room this is! I never saw anything so charming! Only think, Mama, how it is improved since I was here last! I always thought it such a sweet place, ma’am,” (turning to Mrs. Holmes) “but you have made it so charming! Only look, sister, how delightful everything is! How I should like such a house for myself! Should not you, Mr. Hawkins?"

 

Mr. Hawkins made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the newspaper.

 

"Mr. Hawkins does not hear me," said she, laughing. "He never does sometimes. It is so ridiculous!"

 

This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Holmes; she had never been used to find wit in the inattention of anyone, and could not help looking with surprise at them both.

 

Mrs. Hudson, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their friends, without ceasing till everything was told. Mrs. Hawkins laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and everybody agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise.

 

"You may believe how glad we all were to see them," added Mrs. Hudson, leaning forward towards Mycroft, and speaking in a low voice as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different sides of the room; "but, however, I can't help wishing they had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for you know,” (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) “it was wrong in her situation. I wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!"

 

Mrs. Hawkins laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.

 

"She expects the baby in February," continued Mrs. Hudson.

 

Lady Stamford could no longer endure such a conversation, and therefore exerted herself to ask Mr. Hawkins if there was any news in the paper.

 

"No, none at all," he replied, and read on.

 

"Here comes Sherlock," cried Sir Michael.

 

He immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and ushered Sherlock in himself. Mrs. Hudson asked him, as soon as he appeared, if he had not been to Allenham; and Mrs. Hawkins laughed so heartily at the question, as to show she understood it. 

 

Mr. Hawkins looked up on Sherlock’s entering the room, stared at him some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper. 

 

Mrs. Hawkins' eye was now caught by Mycroft’s drawings, which hung round the room. She got up to examine them.

 

“Oh, dear! How beautiful these are! Well! How delightful! Do but look, Mama, how sweet! I declare they are quite charming; I could look at them forever." And then, sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the room.

 

When Lady Stamford rose to go away, Mr. Hawkins rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.

 

"My love, have you been asleep?" said his wife, laughing.

 

He made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked. He then made his bow, and departed with the rest.

 

Sir Michael had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the manor. Mrs. Holmes, who did not choose to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her sons might do as they pleased. But they had no curiosity to see how Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way. They attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good. 

 

But Sir Michael would not be satisfied — the carriage should be sent for them and they must come. Lady Stamford, too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them. Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Hawkins joined their entreaties. All seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young gentlemen were obliged to yield.

 

"Why should they ask us?" said Sherlock, as soon as they were gone. "The rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the manor whenever anyone is staying either with them, or with us."

 

"They mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said Mycroft, "by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago. The alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull. We must look for the change elsewhere."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greg's departure was unwelcome, but not unexpected. Did I manage to surprise you with the arrival of Janine Hawkins, though? Make sure to check back next week, when she brings some interesting Gossip from Town.


	19. Gossip from Town

As Mycroft and Sherlock entered the drawing-room of the manor the next day, at one door, Janine Hawkins came running in at the other, looking as good-humoured and merry as before. She took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again.

 

"I am so glad to see you!" said she, seating herself between Mycroft and Sherlock, "for it is so bad a day I was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow. I am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, I hope."

 

They were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.

 

"Not go to town!" cried Mrs. Hawkins, with a laugh. "I shall be quite disappointed if you do not. I could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in Hanover-square. You must come, indeed. I am sure I shall be very happy to chaperone you at any time till I am confined, if Mrs. Holmes should not like to go into public."

 

They thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.

 

"Oh, my love," cried Mrs. Hawkins to her husband, who just then entered the room — "you must help me to persuade the Holmes brothers to go to town this winter."

 

Her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the young gentlemen, began complaining of the weather.

 

"How horrid all this is!" said he. "Such weather makes everything and everybody disgusting. Dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain. It makes one detest all one's acquaintance."

 

The rest of the company soon dropped in.

 

"I am afraid, Master Sherlock," said Sir Michael, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to Allenham today."

 

Sherlock looked very grave and said nothing.

 

"Oh, don't be so sly before us," said Mrs. Hawkins; "for we know all about it, I assure you; and I admire your taste very much, for I think he is extremely handsome. We do not live a great way from him in the country, you know. Not above ten miles, I dare say."

 

"Much nearer thirty," said her husband.

 

"Ah, well! There is not much difference. I never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet, pretty place."

 

"As vile a spot as I ever saw in my life," said Mr. Hawkins.

 

Sherlock remained perfectly silent, though his countenance betrayed his interest in what was said.

 

"Is it very ugly?" continued Mrs. Hawkins. "Then it must be some other place that is so pretty, I suppose."

 

When they were seated in the dining room, Sir Michael observed with regret that they were only eight all together.

 

"My dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few. Why did not you ask the Gilberts to come to us today?"

 

"Did not I tell you, Sir Michael, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done? They dined with us last."

 

"You and I, Sir Michael," said Mrs. Hudson, "should not stand upon such ceremony."

 

"Then you would be very ill-bred," cried Mr. Hawkins.

 

"My love, you contradict everybody," said his wife, with her usual laugh. "Do you know that you are quite rude?"

 

"I did not know I contradicted anybody in calling your mother ill-bred."

 

"Aye, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured Mrs. Hudson. "You have taken Janine off my hands, and cannot give her back again. So there I have the whip hand of you."

 

Janine laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together. It was impossible for anyone to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy, than Mrs. Hawkins. The studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded her she was highly diverted.

 

"Mr. Hawkins is so droll!" said she, in a whisper, to Mycroft. "He is always out of humour."

 

Mycroft was not inclined, after a little observation, to give Mr. Hawkins credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured as he wished to appear. It was rather a wish of distinction, Mycroft believed, which produced Mr. Hawkins’ contemptuous treatment of everybody, and his general abuse of everything before him. It was the desire of appearing superior to other people. The motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach anyone to him except his wife.

 

"Oh, my dear Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hawkins to Mycroft soon afterwards, "I have got such a favour to ask of you and your brother. Will you come and spend some time at Cleveland this Christmas? Now, pray do. You cannot think how happy I shall be! — My love," applying to her husband, "don't you long to have the Holmes brothers come to Cleveland?"

 

"Certainly," he replied, with a sneer — "I came into Devonshire with no other view."

 

"There now," said his lady, "you see Mr. Hawkins expects you; so you cannot refuse to come."

 

They both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.

 

"But indeed you must and shall come. I am sure you will like it of all things. It will be quite delightful. You cannot think what a sweet place Cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for Mr. Hawkins is always going about the country canvassing for the election; and so many people came to dine with us that I never saw before, it is quite charming! But, poor fellow! It is very fatiguing to him! For he is forced to make everybody like him."

 

Mycroft could hardly keep his countenance as he assented to the hardship of such an obligation.

 

"How charming it will be," said Janine, "when he is in Parliament! Won't it? How I shall laugh! It will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an M.P.”

 

Mrs. Hawkins surprised Mycroft very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking him whether he did not like her husband excessively.

 

"Certainly," said Mycroft. "He seems very agreeable."

 

"Well — I am so glad you do. I thought you would; he is so pleasant. And Mr. Hawkins is excessively pleased with you and your brother, I can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to Cleveland. I can't imagine why you should object to it."

 

Mycroft was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties. He thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, Mrs. Hawkins might be able to give some more particular account of Victor Trevor's general character than could be gathered from the Stamfords' partial acquaintance with him; and he was eager to gain from anyone such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from Sherlock. He began by inquiring if they saw much of Mr. Trevor at Cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him.

 

"Oh dear, yes; I know him extremely well," replied Mrs. Hawkins. "Not that I ever spoke to him, indeed; but I have seen him forever in town. Somehow or other I never happened to be staying at Baker while he was at Allenham. However, I dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in Somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together. He is very little at Combe, I believe. I know why you inquire about him, very well; your brother is to marry him. I am monstrous glad of it, for then I shall have him for a neighbour, you know."

 

"Upon my word," replied Mycroft, "you know much more of the matter than I do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."

 

"Don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what everybody talks of. I assure you I heard of it in my way through town."

 

"My dear Mrs. Hawkins!"

 

"Upon my honour, I did. I met Captain Watson Monday morning in Bond Street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."

 

"You surprise me very much. Captain Watson tell you of it? Surely you must be mistaken. To give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what I should expect Captain Watson to do."

 

"But I do assure you it was so, for all that, and I will tell you how it happened. I said to him, 'So, Captain, there is a new family come to Baker Cottage, I hear, and Mama sends me word that one of them is going to be married to Mr. Victor Trevor of Combe Magna. Is it true, pray? For of course you must know, as you have been in Devonshire so lately.'"

 

"And what did the Captain say?"

 

"Oh — he did not say much. But he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment I set it down as certain. It will be quite delightful, I declare! When is it to take place?"

 

"Captain Watson was very well, I hope?"

 

"Oh! Yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you."

 

"I am flattered by his commendation. He seems an excellent man; and I think him uncommonly pleasing."

 

"So do I. He is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave. Mama says _he_ was in love with your brother, too. I assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with anybody."

 

"Is Mr. Trevor much known in your part of Somersetshire?" asked Mycroft.

 

"Oh! Yes, extremely well. That is, I do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because Combe Magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable, I assure you. Nobody is more liked than Victor Trevor wherever he goes, and so you may tell your brother. He is a monstrous lucky young man to get him, upon my honour. 

 

“Not but that Mr. Trevor is much more lucky in getting your brother, because he is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for him. However, I don't think him hardly at all handsomer than you, I assure you; for I think you both excessively good-looking, and so does Mr. Hawkins, too, I am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night."

 

Mrs. Hawkins' information respecting Victor Trevor was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to Mycroft.

 

"I am so glad we have got acquainted at last," continued Janine. "And now I hope we shall always be great friends. You can't think how much I longed to see you! It is so delightful that you should live at the cottage! And I am so glad your brother is going to be well married! I hope you will be a great deal at Combe Magna. It is a sweet place, by all accounts."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is your opinion of the gossip Janine Hawkins brought from town? And which two new characters do you think will soon arrive to take her place at Baker Manor? Find out next week.


	20. Molly Hooper and Sally Donovan Arrive

Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins returned to Cleveland the next day, and the two families at Baker were again left to entertain each other. But this did not last long; Mycroft and Sherlock had hardly got their last visitors out of their heads, had hardly done wondering at Janine's being so happy without a cause, at Mr. Hawkins' acting so continuously out-of-humour, and at the strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before Sir Michael's and Mrs. Hudson's active zeal in the cause of society procured them some other new acquaintance to see and observe.

 

In a morning's excursion to Exeter, Sir Michael and his mother-in-law had met with two young ladies, whom Mrs. Hudson had the satisfaction of discovering to be her distant relations, and this was enough for Sir Michael to invite them directly to the manor, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over. Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and Lady Stamford was thrown into no little alarm on the return of Sir Michael, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance — whose tolerable gentility even — she could have no proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at all. 

 

Their being her relations, too, made it so much the worse; and Mrs. Hudson's attempts at consolation were unfortunate when she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable, because they were all cousins and must put up with one another. As it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Stamford resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day.

 

The young ladies arrived. Their appearance was by no means ungenteel or unfashionable. Their dress was very smart, their manners very civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture, and they happened to be so dotingly fond of children that Lady Stamford's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the manor. She declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration. 

 

Sir Michael's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the Holmes family of Miss Hooper’s and Miss Donovan's arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world. From such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned; Mycroft and Sherlock well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of England, under every possible variation of form, temper, and understanding. 

 

Sir Michael wanted the whole family to walk to the manor directly and look at his guests. Benevolent, philanthropic man! It was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.

 

"Do come now," said he. "Pray come — you must come — I declare you shall come. You can't think how you will like them. They are so good-humoured and agreeable! And they both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at Exeter that you are the most handsome creatures in the world; and I have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more. You will be delighted with them, I am sure. How can you be so cross as not to come? Why, they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion. You are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related."

 

But Sir Michael could not prevail. He could only obtain a promise of their calling at the manor within a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to Molly Hooper and Sally Donovan, as he had been already boasting of Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan to them.

 

When their promised visit to the manor and consequent introduction to these young ladies took place, they found the appearance of Miss Hooper, who was nearly thirty, very plain. Miss Donovan, however, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged a considerable beauty. Her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which, though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person. 

 

Their manners were particularly civil, and Mycroft soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when he saw with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to Lady Stamford. With her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing anything, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight. 

 

Fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother in pursuit of praise for her children is at once the most rapacious and most credulous of human beings; her demands are exorbitant, but she will swallow anything; and the excessive affection and endurance of Molly Hooper and Sally Donovan towards her offspring were viewed therefore by Lady Stamford without the smallest surprise or distrust. She saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted. She saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment. It suggested no other surprise than that Mycroft and Sherlock should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.

 

“Little Harry is in such spirits today!" said she, on his taking Miss Hooper’s pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of the window. "He is full of monkey tricks."

 

And soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "How playful William is!"

 

"And here is my sweet little Anna Maria," she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes. "And she is always so gentle and quiet. Never was there such a quiet little thing!"

 

But, unfortunately, in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's headdress slightly scratching the child's neck produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy. The mother's consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan, and everything was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer. 

 

She was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water by Miss Hooper, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by Miss Donovan. With such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying. She still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual, till she was carried out of the room, in her mother's arms, in quest of apricot marmalade. As the two boys chose to follow, the four young people were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours.

 

"Poor little creature!" said Miss Hooper, as soon as they were gone. "It might have been a very sad accident."

 

"Yet I hardly know how," cried Sherlock, "unless it had been under totally different circumstances. But this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality."

 

"What a sweet woman Lady Stamford is!" said Miss Donovan.

 

Sherlock was silent; it was impossible for him to say what he did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Mycroft, therefore, the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it always fell. He did his best when thus called on, by speaking of Lady Stamford with more warmth than he felt, though with far less than Miss Donovan.

 

"And Sir Michael, too," cried Miss Hooper. "What a charming man he is!"

 

Here too, Mycroft’s commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat. He merely observed that Sir Michael was perfectly good-humoured and friendly.

 

"And what a charming little family they have! I never saw such fine children in my life. I declare I quite dote upon them already, and indeed I am always distractedly fond of children."

 

"I should guess so," said Mycroft, with a smile, "from what I have witnessed this morning."

 

"I have a notion," said Miss Donovan, "you think the little Stamfords rather too much indulged. Perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Stamford; and for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet."

 

"I confess," replied Mycroft, "that while I am at Baker Manor, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."

 

A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Hooper, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, "And how do you like Devonshire, Mr. Holmes? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex."

 

In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Mycroft replied that he was.

 

"Musgrave Hall is a prodigiously beautiful place, is not it?" added Miss Hooper.

 

"We have heard Sir Michael admire it excessively," said Miss Donovan, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her cousin.

 

"I think everyone _must_ admire it," replied Mycroft, "who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that anyone can estimate its beauties as we do."

 

“I suppose,” said Miss Hooper, “Mr. Moriarty was quite a beau, before he married, as he was so rich?"

 

"Upon my word," replied Mycroft, "I cannot tell you, for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still, for there is not the smallest alteration in him."

 

"Oh dear! One never thinks of married men's being beaux — they have something else to do."

 

"Lord! Molly!” cried her cousin. "You can talk of nothing but beaux. You will make Mr. Holmes believe you think of nothing else." And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.

 

This specimen of Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan was enough. The overly familiar questions of Miss Hooper left her no recommendation, and as Mycroft was not blinded, by the beauty of Miss Donovan, to her lack of real elegance and artlessness, he left the house without any wish of knowing them better.

 

Not so Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan. They came well-provided with admiration for Sir Michael Stamford, his family, and all his relations, and a fair proportion was now dealt out to his cousins, whom they declared to be the most handsome, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable young men they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted. 

 

To be better acquainted, therefore, Mycroft soon found was their inevitable lot, for as Sir Michael was entirely on the side of Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan, their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every day. Sir Michael could do no more; but he did not know that any more was required. To be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate; and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established friends.

 

To do him justice, he did everything in his power to promote their unreserve, by making Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars — and Mycroft had not seen them more than twice, before Miss Hooper wished him joy on his brother's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau since he came to Baker.

 

"'Twill be a fine thing to have him married so young, to be sure," said she. "And I hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome. And I hope you may have as good luck yourself soon; but perhaps you may have a friend in the corner already."

 

Mycroft could not suppose that Sir Michael would be more discreet in proclaiming his suspicions of his regard for Greg, than he had been with respect to Sherlock; indeed, it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since Greg's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to Mycroft’s best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite general attention. The letter L had been likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established.

 

Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan, as he expected, had now all the benefit of these jokes, and in Miss Hooper they raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family. But Sir Michael did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name as Miss Hooper had in hearing it.

 

"His name is Lestrade," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret."

 

"Lestrade!" repeated Miss Hooper. "Mr. Lestrade is the happy man, is he? Mrs. Moriarty’s brother? A very agreeable young man to be sure; I know him very well."

 

"How can you say so, Molly?" cried Sally, who generally made an amendment to all her cousin's assertions. "Though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well."

 

Mycroft heard all this with attention and surprise. Who was this uncle? Where did he live? How came they acquainted? He wished very much to have the subject continued, though he did not choose to join in it himself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in his life, he thought Mrs. Hudson deficient either in curiosity after petty information or in a disposition to communicate it. 

 

The manner in which Miss Hooper had spoken of Greg increased his curiosity; for it struck him as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something, to his disadvantage. But his curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of Mr. Lestrade's name by Miss Hooper when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by Sir Michael. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Mycroft's curiosity be assuaged? Find out next week, when Sally Donovan Tells Mycroft a Secret.


	21. Sally Donovan Tells Mycroft a Secret

Sherlock, who had never much toleration for anything like impertinence, inferiority of genius, or even difference of taste from himself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of his spirits, to be pleased with Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of his behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, Mycroft principally attributed that preference of himself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of Sally, who missed no opportunity of engaging him in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments.

 

Sally was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Mycroft frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her lack of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage. Mycroft saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but he saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the manor betrayed; and he could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every show of attention and deference towards himself perfectly valueless.

 

"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Sally to Mycroft one day, as they were walking together from the manor to the cottage, "but pray, are you personally acquainted with Mrs. Moriarty’s mother, Mrs. Lestrade?"

 

Mycroft _did_ think the question a very odd one, and his countenance expressed it, as he answered that he had never seen Mrs. Lestrade.

 

"Indeed!" replied Sally. "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Musgrave Hall sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?"

 

"No," returned Mycroft, cautious of giving his real opinion of Greg's mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity. "I know nothing of her."

 

"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said Sally, eyeing Mycroft attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons — I wish I might venture… But, however, I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent."

 

Mycroft made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Sally, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation,

 

"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do anything in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting _you_ ; indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble _you_. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Lestrade."

 

"I am sorry I do _not_ ," said Mycroft, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to _you_ to know my opinion of her. But really, I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character."

 

"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Lestrade is certainly nothing to me at present — but the time _may_ come — how soon it will come must depend upon herself — when we may be very intimately connected."

 

She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on him.

 

"Good heavens!" cried Mycroft. "What do you mean? Are you connected with her younger son, Mr. Anderson Lestrade? Can you be?" 

 

He did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.

 

"No," replied Sally, "not with Mr. Anderson Lestrade — I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Mycroft, "with his elder brother."

 

What felt Mycroft at that moment? Astonishment — which would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it. He turned towards Sally in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though his complexion varied, he stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.

 

"You may well be surprised," continued Sally; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but Molly, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Lestrade must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think Mr. Lestrade can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you, because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself quite as his own brother." — She paused.

 

Mycroft for a few moments remained silent. His astonishment at what he heard was at first too great for words; but at length, forcing himself to speak, and to speak cautiously, he said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed his surprise and solicitude, "May I ask if your engagement is of long standing?"

 

"We have been engaged these four years."

 

"Four years!"

 

"Yes."

 

Mycroft, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.

 

"I did not know," said he, "that you were even acquainted till the other day."

 

"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my uncle's tutelage, you know, a considerable while."

 

"Your uncle?”

 

"Yes; Mr. Gregson. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Gregson?"

 

"I think I have," replied Mycroft, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with his increase of emotion.

 

"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance began, for Molly and I were often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as I ought to have been. Though you do not know him so well as I do, Mr. Holmes, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making someone sincerely attached to him."

 

"Certainly," answered Mycroft, without knowing what he said; but after a moment's reflection, he added, with revived security of Greg's honour and love, and his companion's falsehood — "Engaged to Mr. Greg Lestrade! I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really — I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Lestrade."

 

"We can mean no other," cried Sally, smiling. "Mr. Greg Lestrade, the eldest son of Mrs. Lestrade, of Park Street, and brother of your cousin’s wife, Irene Moriarty, is the person I mean; you must allow that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends."

 

"It is strange," replied Mycroft, in a most painful perplexity, "that I should never have heard him even mention your name."

 

"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has been to keep the matter secret. You knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting anything, that was reason enough for his not mentioning it."

 

She was silent. Mycroft's security sunk; but his self-command did not sink with it.

 

"Four years you have been engaged," said he with a firm voice.

 

"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor Greg! It puts him quite out of heart." Then, taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person whose likeness it is. I have had it above these three years."

 

She put it into his hands as she spoke; and when Mycroft saw the painting, whatever other doubts his fear of a too hasty decision, or his wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in his mind, he could have none of its being Greg's face. He returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness.

 

"I have never been able," continued Sally, "to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to sit for it the very first opportunity."

 

"You are quite in the right," replied Mycroft calmly. 

 

They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Sally spoke first.

 

"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceedingly proud woman."

 

"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Mycroft; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me. But pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety."

 

As he said this, he looked earnestly at Sally, hoping to discover something in her countenance — perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying — but Sally's countenance suffered no change.

 

"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long, to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you were an old acquaintance. Besides, in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Greg's mother; and I am so unfortunate that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. 

 

“Molly is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world the other day, when Greg's name was mentioned by Sir Michael, lest she should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Greg's sake these last four years. Everything in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom — we can hardly meet above twice a year. I am sure I wonder how my heart is not quite broken."

 

Here she took out her handkerchief; but Mycroft did not feel very compassionate.

 

“Sometimes," continued Sally, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." As she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then at other times I have not resolution enough for it. I cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such a thing would do. And on my own account too — so dear as he is to me — I don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in such a case, Mr. Holmes? What would you do yourself?"

 

"Pardon me," replied Mycroft, startled by the question; "but I can give you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct you."

 

"To be sure," continued Sally, after a few minutes silence on both sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor Greg is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadfully low-spirited when he was at Baker? He was so miserable when he left us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him quite ill."

 

"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"

 

"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he came directly from town?"

 

"No," replied Mycroft, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of Sally's veracity. "I remember he told us that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." 

 

He remembered, too, his own surprise at the time, at Greg’s mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names.

 

"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Sally.

 

"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."

 

"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected. Poor fellow! I am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Mycroft. "You know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual. He was tired, I dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible."

 

Mycroft saw that it _was_ his handwriting, and he could doubt no longer. The picture, he had allowed himself to believe, might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been Greg's gift; but a correspondence between them by letter could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else. For a few moments, he was almost overcome — his heart sunk within him, and he could hardly stand — but exertion was indispensably necessary; and he struggled so resolutely against the oppression of his feelings, that his success was speedy, and for the time complete.

 

"Writing to each other," said Sally, returning the letter into her pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Greg has not even _that_. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy."

 

Fortunately for Mycroft, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a few minutes, Miss Donovan returned to the manor, and Mycroft was then at liberty to think and be wretched. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will come of such thoughts and wretchedness? Find out next week, when Mycroft Reflects on Greg's Behaviour.
> 
> Meanwhile, if you missed last Thursday's tribute to My Dearest Patricia's birthday, you might want to check out my latest parentlock 221B ficlet - [A Surprise Birthday Gift](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16481963).


	22. Mycroft Reflects on Greg’s Behaviour

However small Mycroft's general dependence on Sally's veracity might be, it was impossible for him on serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description. What Sally had asserted to be true, therefore, Mycroft could not, dared not longer doubt; supported as it was, too, on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but his own wishes. Their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of Mr. Gregson was a foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and Greg's visit near Plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards Mycroft, the intimate knowledge of Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan as to Musgrave Hall and their family connections, which had often surprised him, the picture, the letter, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning Greg unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, Greg’s ill-treatment of himself. 

 

Mycroft's resentment of such behaviour, his indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time made him feel only for himself; but other ideas, other considerations, soon arose. Had Greg been intentionally deceiving him? Had he feigned a regard for him which he did not feel? Was his engagement to Sally an engagement of the heart? No; whatever it might once have been, Mycroft could not believe it such at present. 

 

Greg’s affection was all his own. Mycroft could not be deceived in that. His mother, brothers, Irene, all had been conscious of Greg’s regard for him at Musgrave Hall; it was not an illusion of his own vanity. Greg certainly loved him. 

 

What a softener of the heart was this persuasion! How much could it not tempt him to forgive! Greg had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at Musgrave Hall after he first felt Mycroft’s influence over him to be more than it ought to be. In that, he could not be defended. But if Greg had injured him, how much more had he injured himself. If Mycroft’s case were pitiable, his was hopeless. 

 

Greg’s imprudence had made Mycroft miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise. Mycroft might in time regain tranquillity; but Greg, what had he to look forward to? Could he ever be tolerably happy with Sally Donovan? Could he, even were his affection for Mycroft out of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her — illiterate, artful, and selfish?

 

The youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to everything but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years — years which, if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.

 

If, in the supposition of Greg’s seeking to marry Mycroft, his difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune to himself. These difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from Sally, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the person by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness could be felt as a relief!

 

As these considerations occurred to him in painful succession, Mycroft wept for Greg, more than for himself. Supported by the conviction of having done nothing to merit his present unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that Greg had done nothing to forfeit his esteem, he thought he could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command himself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from his mother and brothers. 

 

So well was Mycroft able to answer his own expectations, that when he joined them at dinner only two hours after he had first suffered the extinction of all his dearest hopes, no one would have supposed, from the appearance of the brothers, that Mycroft was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide him forever from the object of his love, and that Sherlock was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart he felt thoroughly possessed, and whom he expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house.

 

The necessity of concealing, from his mother and Sherlock, what had been entrusted in confidence to himself, though it obliged him to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Mycroft's distress. On the contrary, it was a relief to him, to be spared the communication of what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation of Greg, which would probably flow from the excess of their affection for himself, and which was more than he felt equal to support.

 

From their counsel, or their conversation, he knew he could receive no assistance. Their tenderness and sorrow must add to his distress, while his self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise. He was stronger alone, and his own good sense so well supported him, that his firmness was as unshaken, his appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

 

Much as he had suffered from his first conversation with Sally on the subject, Mycroft soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more reasons than one. He wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated again, he wanted more clearly to understand what Sally really felt for Greg, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for him, and he particularly wanted to convince Sally, by his readiness to enter on the matter again, and his calmness in conversing on it, that he was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which he very much feared his involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful. 

 

That Sally was disposed to be jealous of him appeared very probable: it was plain that Greg had always spoken highly in his praise, not merely from Sally's assertion, but from her venturing to trust him on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so confessedly and evidently important. And even Sir Michael's joking intelligence must have had some weight. But indeed, while Mycroft remained so well assured within himself of being really beloved by Greg, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that Sally should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof. 

 

What other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that Mycroft might be informed by it of Sally's superior claims on Greg, and be taught to avoid him in future? He had little difficulty in understanding this much of his rival's intentions, and while he was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and honesty directed — to combat his own affection for Greg and to see him as little as possible — he could not deny himself the comfort of endeavouring to convince Sally that his heart was unwounded. As he could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, he did not mistrust his own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.

 

But it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded, though Sally was as well disposed as himself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the manor or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation. Such a thought would never enter either Sir Michael or Lady Stamford's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse. They met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.

 

One or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording Mycroft any chance of engaging Sally in private, when Sir Michael called at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine with Lady Stamford that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at Exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and cousins. Mycroft, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point he had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of Lady Stamford than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation. Sherrinford, with their mother's permission, was equally compliant, and Sherlock, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by their mother, who could not bear to have him seclude himself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.

 

The young gentlemen went, and Lady Stamford was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her. The insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as Mycroft had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room. To the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they remained there, he was too well convinced of the impossibility of engaging Sally's attention to attempt it. They quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things. The card-table was then placed, and Mycroft began to wonder at himself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the manor. They all rose up in preparation for a round game.

 

"I am glad," said Lady Stamford to Sally, "you are not going to finish poor little Anna Maria's basket this evening; for I am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight. And we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment tomorrow, and then I hope she will not much mind it."

 

This hint was enough; Sally recollected herself instantly and replied, "Indeed you are very much mistaken, Lady Stamford. I am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or I should have been at my filigree already. I would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, I am resolved to finish the basket after supper."

 

"You are very good. I hope it won't hurt your eyes. Will you ring the bell for some working candles? My poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, I know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow."

 

Sally directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to imply that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.

 

Lady Stamford proposed a rubber of Casino to the others. 

 

No one made any objection but Sherlock, who, with his usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "Your Ladyship will have the goodness to excuse me. You know I detest cards. I shall go to the piano-forte; I have not touched it since it was tuned." And without farther ceremony, he turned away and walked to the instrument.

 

Lady Stamford looked as if she thanked heaven that _she_ had never made so rude a speech.

 

"Sherlock can never keep long from that instrument, you know, ma'am," said Mycroft, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and I do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte I ever heard."

 

The remaining five were now to draw their cards.

 

"Perhaps," continued Mycroft, "if I should happen to cut out, I may be of some use to Miss Donovan, in rolling her papers for her. There is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible, I think, for her labour alone to finish it this evening. I should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it."

 

"Indeed I shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried Sally, "for I find there is more to be done to it than I thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear Anna Maria after all."

 

"Oh! That would be terrible, indeed," said Miss Hooper. "Dear little soul, how I do love her!"

 

"You are very kind," said Lady Stamford to Mycroft; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber.”

 

Thus, by a little of that diplomacy which Sherlock could never condescend to practise, Mycroft gained his own end, and pleased Lady Stamford at the same time. 

 

Sally made room for him with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work. The pianoforte, at which Sherlock, wrapped up in his own music and his own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that anybody was in the room besides himself, was luckily so near them that Mycroft now judged he might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will Mycroft and Sally discuss? Find out next week, when they engage in An Unsatisfactory Conversation.


	23. An Unsatisfactory Conversation

In a firm though cautious tone, Mycroft thus began his conversation with Sally:

 

"I should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if I felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject. I will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again."

 

"Thank you," cried Sally warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended you by what I told you that Monday."

 

"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Mycroft spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?"

 

"And yet I do assure you," replied Sally, her sharp eyes full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable. I felt sure that you were angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having taken such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs. But I am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me. If you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart, speaking to you of what I am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook everything else, I am sure."

 

"Indeed, I can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it. Your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them. Mr. Lestrade, I believe, is entirely dependent on his mother."

 

"He has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, I could give up every prospect of more without a sigh. I have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but I love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her. We must wait; it may be for many years. With almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but Greg's affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of, I know."

 

"That conviction must be everything to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in yours. If the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances, it naturally would during a four years' engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed."

 

Sally here looked up; but Mycroft was careful in guarding his countenance from every expression that could give his words a suspicious tendency.

 

"Greg's love for me," said Sally, "has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that I should be unpardonable to doubt it now. I can safely say that he has never given me one moment's alarm on that account from the first."

 

Mycroft hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.

 

Sally went on. "I am rather of a jealous temper, too, by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, I was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that I could not account for, or if he had talked more of one acquaintance than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at Longstaple than he used to be. I do not mean to say that I am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case I am sure I could not be deceived."

 

 _All this_ , thought Mycroft, _is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us._

 

"But what," said he, after a short silence, "are your views? Or have you none but that of waiting for Mrs. Lestrade's death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity? Is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth?"

 

"If we could be certain that it would be only for a while! But Mrs. Lestrade is a very headstrong, proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure everything to her younger son, Anderson, and the idea of that, for Greg's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures."

 

"And for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason."

 

Sally looked at Mycroft again, and was silent.

 

"Do you know Mr. Anderson Lestrade?" asked Mycroft.

 

"Not at all — I never saw him; but I fancy he is very unlike his brother — silly and a great coxcomb."

 

"A great coxcomb!" repeated Molly, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in Sherlock's music. "Oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, I dare say."

 

“No, Molly," cried Sally, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are NOT great coxcombs."

 

"I can answer for it that Mr. Holmes' is not," said Mrs. Hudson, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men I ever saw; but as for Sally, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who _she_ likes."

 

"Oh," cried Molly, looking significantly round at them, "I dare say Sally's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as Mr. Holmes'."

 

Mycroft blushed in spite of himself. Sally bit her lip, and looked angrily at her cousin. 

 

A mutual silence took place for some time. Sally first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though Sherlock was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto — 

 

"I will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed, I am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned. I dare say you have seen enough of Greg to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession. Now, my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he can, and then, through your interest, which I am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and I hope out of some regard to me, your cousin might be persuaded to give him Musgrave Hall living; which I understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while. That would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest."

 

"I should always be happy," replied Mycroft, "to show any mark of my esteem and friendship for Mr. Lestrade. But do you not perceive that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary? He is brother to Irene Moriarty — _that_ must be recommendation enough to her husband."

 

"But Mrs. Moriarty would not much approve of Greg's going into orders."

 

"Then I rather suspect that my interest would do very little."

 

They were again silent for many minutes. At length, Sally exclaimed with a deep sigh,

 

"I believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the engagement. We seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end. But you will not give me your advice, Mr. Holmes?"

 

"No," answered Mycroft, with a smile, which concealed very agitated feelings, "on such a subject I certainly will not. You know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes."

 

“Indeed, you wrong me," replied Sally, with great solemnity. "I know nobody of whose judgment I think so highly as I do of yours; and I do really believe, that if you were to say to me, 'I advise you by all means to put an end to your engagement with Greg Lestrade, it will be more for the happiness of both of you,' I should resolve upon doing it immediately."

 

Mycroft blushed for the insincerity of Greg's future wife, and replied, "This compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject, had I formed one. It raises my influence much too high. The power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent person."

 

"'Tis because you are an _indifferent person_ ," said Sally, with some pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your judgment might justly have such weight with me. If you could be supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having."

 

Mycroft thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of unreserve; and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again. Another pause, therefore, of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and Sally was still the first to end it.

 

"Shall you be in town this winter, Mr. Holmes?" said she, with all her accustomary complacency.

 

"Certainly not."

 

"I am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened at the information. "It would have given me such pleasure to meet you there! But I dare say you will go, for all that. To be sure, the Moriartys will ask you to come to them while they are in London."

 

"It will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do."

 

"How unlucky that is! I had quite depended upon meeting you there. Molly and I are to go the latter end of January to some relations who have been wanting us to visit them these several years! But I only go for the sake of seeing Greg. He will be there in February. Otherwise, London would have no charms for me; I have not spirits for it."

 

Mycroft was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two young people was therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other less than they had done before; and Mycroft sat down to the card table with the melancholy persuasion that Greg was not only without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on _her_ side would have given — for self-interest alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement of which she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary.

 

From this time, the subject was never revived by Mycroft, and when entered on by Sally — who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante of her happiness whenever she received a letter from Greg — it was treated by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow; for he felt such conversations to be an indulgence which Sally did not deserve, and which were dangerous to himself.

 

The visit of Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan at Baker Manor was lengthened far beyond what the first invitation implied. Their favour increased; they could not be spared; Sir Michael would not hear of their going; and in spite of their numerous and long arranged engagements in Exeter, in spite of the absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the manor; two months which seemed like six to Mycroft. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will things ever get better for the Holmes brothers? Find out next week, when Mrs. Hudson Invites Sherlock and Mycroft to London.
> 
> Today, as always, I am very thankful for all of my wonderful readers, and the lovely comments you leave. I won't be able to respond until tomorrow, though, since I'm off to bring carrots to my horse and all her friends before I prepare - and enjoy! - a Thanksgiving feast. :D


	24. Mrs. Hudson Invites Sherlock and Mycroft to London

Though Mrs. Hudson was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own. Since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near Portman Square. Towards this home, she began, on the approach of January, to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked Mycroft and Sherlock to accompany her. 

 

Mycroft, without observing the varying complexion of his brother, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which he believed himself to be speaking their united inclinations. The reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year. 

 

Mrs. Hudson received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.

 

"Oh, Lord! I am sure your mother can spare you very well, and I _do_ beg you will favour me with your company, for I've quite set my heart upon it. Don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for I shan't put myself at all out of my way for you. We three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever I do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters. I am sure your mother will not object to it; for I have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if I don't get one of you at least well married before I have done with you, it shall not be my fault. I shall speak a good word for you to everyone eligible, you may depend upon it."

 

"I have a notion," said Sir Michael, "that Sherlock would not object to such a scheme, if his elder brother would come into it. It is very hard indeed that he should not have a little pleasure, because Mycroft does not wish it. So I would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are tired of Baker, without saying a word to Mycroft about it."

 

"Nay," cried Mrs. Hudson, "I am sure I shall be monstrous glad of Sherlock's company, whether Mycroft will go or not, only the more the merrier say I, and I thought it would be more comfortable for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back. But one or the other, if not both of them, I must have. Lord bless me! How do you think I can live, poking by myself, I who have been always used till this winter to have Janine with me. Come, Sherlock, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if Mycroft will change his mind by and bye, why so much the better."

 

"I thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said Sherlock, with warmth. "Your invitation has insured my gratitude forever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness I am capable of, to be able to accept it. But my mother, my dearest, kindest mother… I feel the justice of what Mycroft has urged; and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence… Oh! No, nothing should tempt me to leave her. It should not, must not be a struggle."

 

Mrs. Hudson repeated her assurance that Mrs. Holmes could spare them perfectly well; and Mycroft, who now understood his brother, and saw to what indifference to almost everything else he was carried by his eagerness to be with Victor Trevor again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to their mother's decision, from whom, however, he scarcely expected to receive any support in his endeavour to prevent a visit, which he could not approve of for Sherlock, and which on his own account he had particular reasons to avoid. 

 

Whatever Sherlock was desirous of, their mother would be eager to promote. Mycroft could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which he had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and he dared not explain the motive of his own disinclination for going to London. That Sherlock, fastidious as he was — thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Hudson' manners, and invariably dismissive of them — should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to his irritable feelings, in his pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to him, as Mycroft, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness.

 

On being informed of the invitation, Mrs. Holmes, persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her sons, and perceiving through all his affectionate attention to herself, how much the heart of Sherlock was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon _her_ account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all, from this separation.

 

"I am delighted with the plan," she cried. "It is exactly what I could wish. Sherrinford and I shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves. When you and the Stamfords are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music! You will find Sherrinford so improved when you come back again! 

 

“I have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to anyone. It is very right that you _should_ go to town. I would have every young person of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements of London. You will be under the care of a motherly, good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you I can have no doubt. And in all probability you will see your cousin, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, I cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other."

 

"Though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said Mycroft, "you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed."

 

Sherlock's countenance sunk.

 

"And what," said Mrs. Holmes, "is my dear, prudent Mycroft going to suggest? What formidable obstacle is he now to bring forward? Do not let me hear a word about the expense of it."

 

"My objection is this: though I think very well of Mrs. Hudson's heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us consequence."

 

"That is very true," replied his mother. "But of her society, separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have anything at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Stamford."

 

"If Mycroft is frightened away by his dislike of Mrs. Hudson’s attempts at wit," said Sherlock, "at least it need not prevent _my_ accepting her invitation. I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort."

 

Mycroft could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person to whom he had often had difficulty in persuading Sherlock to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within himself, that if his brother persisted in going, he would go likewise, as he did not think it proper that Sherlock should be left to the sole guidance of his own judgment, or that Mrs. Hudson should be abandoned to the mercy of Sherlock for all the comfort of her domestic hours. To this determination he was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Greg Lestrade, by Sally's account, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.

 

"I will have you _both_ go," said Mrs. Holmes. "These objections are nonsensical. You will have much pleasure in being in London, and especially in being together; and if Mycroft would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment, he would foresee it there from a variety of sources; he would, perhaps, expect some from improving his acquaintance with his cousin's extended family."

 

Mycroft had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken his mother's dependence on the attachment of Greg and himself, that the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hopeless of success, he forced himself to begin his design by saying, as calmly as he could, "I like Greg Lestrade very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether I am ever known to them or not."

 

Mrs. Holmes smiled, and said nothing. Sherlock lifted up his eyes in astonishment, and Mycroft conjectured that he might as well have held his tongue.

 

After very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully accepted. Mrs. Hudson received the information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care. Nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her. Sir Michael was delighted; for to a man whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in London, was something. Even Lady Stamford took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan, especially Sally, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them.

 

Mycroft submitted to the arrangement, which counteracted his wishes, with less reluctance than he had expected to feel. With regard to himself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether he went to town or not, and when he saw his mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and his brother exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all his usual animation, and elevated to more than his usual gaiety, he could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow himself to distrust the consequence.

 

Sherlock's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of his spirits and his impatience to be gone. His unwillingness to leave his mother was his only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting his grief on that score was excessive. Their mother's affliction was hardly less, and Mycroft was the only one of the three who seemed to consider the separation as anything short of eternal.

 

Their departure took place in the first week in January. The Stamfords were to follow in about a week. Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan kept their station at the manor, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who might the Holmes brothers meet in London? Find out next week, when Mycroft and Sherlock Go to Town.


	25. Mycroft and Sherlock Go to Town

Mycroft could not find himself in the carriage with Mrs. Hudson, and beginning a journey to London as her guest, without wondering at his own situation, so short had their acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition, and so many had been his objections against such a measure only a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy ardour of youth which Sherlock and their mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked; and Mycroft, in spite of every occasional doubt of Victor Trevor's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of Sherlock, without feeling how blank was his own prospect, how cheerless his own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly he would engage in the solicitude of Sherlock's situation to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. 

 

A short, a very short time, however, must now decide what Victor Trevor's intentions were. In all probability he was already in town. Sherlock's eagerness to be gone declared his dependence on finding him there; and Mycroft was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character which his own observation or the intelligence of others could give him, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to Sherlock, with such zealous attention as to ascertain what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place. Should the result of his observations be unfavourable, Mycroft was determined at all events to open the eyes of his brother. Should it be otherwise, his exertions would be of a different nature: he must then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen his satisfaction in Sherlock's happiness.

 

They were three days on their journey, and Sherlock's behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what his future complaisance and companionableness to Mrs. Hudson might be expected to be. He sat in silence almost all the way, wrapped in his own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew from him an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to his brother. 

 

To atone for this conduct, therefore, Mycroft took immediate possession of the post of civility which he had assigned himself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Hudson, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever he could; and Mrs. Hudson on her side treated them both with all possible kindness, and was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment. 

 

They reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire. The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young gentlemen were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. It had formerly been Janine's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.

 

As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival, Mycroft determined to employ the interval in writing to his mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Sherlock did the same. 

 

"I am writing home, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "Had not you better defer your letter for a day or two?"

 

"I am _not_ going to write to my mother," replied Sherlock, hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. 

 

Mycroft said no more. It immediately struck him that Sherlock must then be writing to Victor Trevor; and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that however mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave him pleasure, and he continued his letter with greater alacrity. 

 

Sherlock's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no more than a note. It was then folded up, sealed, and directed with eager rapidity. Mycroft thought he could distinguish a large T in the direction. No sooner was it complete than Sherlock, ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for him to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once.

 

Sherlock’s spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them which prevented their giving much pleasure to his brother, and this agitation increased as the evening drew on. He could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed to be anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.

 

It was a great satisfaction to Mycroft that Mrs. Hudson, by being much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea things were brought in, and already had Sherlock been disappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house. Mycroft felt secure of its announcing Victor Trevor's approach, and Sherlock, starting up, moved towards the door. 

 

Everything was silent; this could not be borne many seconds. He opened the door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him would naturally produce. 

 

In the ecstasy of his feelings at that instant, Sherlock could not help exclaiming, "Oh, Mycroft, it is Victor Trevor, indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to throw himself into his arms, when Captain Watson appeared.

 

It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and Sherlock immediately left the room. 

 

Mycroft was disappointed, too; but at the same time his regard for Captain Watson ensured his welcome; and he felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to his brother should perceive that Sherlock experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him. Mycroft instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by Captain Watson, that he even observed Sherlock as he quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards Mycroft himself.

 

"Is your brother ill?" said he.

 

Mycroft answered in some distress that he was, and then talked of head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of everything to which he could decently attribute his brother's behaviour.

 

Captain Watson heard him with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about their journey, and the friends they had left behind.

 

In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both engaged elsewhere. Mycroft wished very much to ask whether Victor Trevor were then in town, but he was afraid of giving Captain Watson pain by any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something, he asked if he had been in London ever since they had seen him last. 

 

"Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever since. I have been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return to Baker."

 

This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to Mycroft’s remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Hudson, and he was fearful that his question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than he had ever felt.

 

Mrs. Hudson soon came in. "Oh! Captain," said she, with her usual noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you — sorry I could not come before — beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Captain, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town today?"

 

"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Hawkins', where I have been dining."

 

"Oh, you did. Well, and how do they all do at their house? How does Janine do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."

 

"Mrs. Hawkins appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you that you will certainly see her tomorrow."

 

"Aye, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Captain, I have brought two young gentlemen with me, you see — that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. Your friend, Master Sherlock, too — which you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Trevor will do between you about him. Aye, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome.” 

 

“Well!” continued Mrs. Hudson. “I was young once, but I never was very handsome — worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! Poor man! He has been dead these eight years and better. But Captain, where have you been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let's have no secrets among friends."

 

He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but without satisfying her in any. Mycroft now began to make the tea, and Sherlock was obliged to appear again.

 

After his entrance, Captain Watson became more thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and Mrs. Hudson could not prevail on him to stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and they were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.

 

Sherlock rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks. The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished their breakfast before Mrs. Hawkins' barouche stopped at the door, and in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or Mycroft and Sherlock again. So surprised at their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they had not come!

 

"Mr. Hawkins will be so happy to see you," said she. "What do you think he said when he heard of your coming with Mama? I forget what it was now, but it was something so droll!"

 

After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat, or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaintance on Mrs. Hudson's side, and in laughter without cause on Mrs. Hawkins', it was proposed by the latter that they should all accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to which Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft readily consented, as having likewise some purchases to make themselves; and Sherlock, though declining it at first, was induced to go likewise.

 

Wherever they went, Sherlock was evidently always on the watch. In Bond Street, especially, where much of their business lay, his eyes were in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, his mind was equally abstracted from everything actually before them, from all that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied everywhere, his brother could never obtain his opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both. He received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and could with difficulty govern his vexation at the tediousness of Mrs. Hawkins, whose eye was caught by everything pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision.

 

It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had they entered the house than Sherlock flew eagerly upstairs, and when Mycroft followed, he found him turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance, which declared that no Victor Trevor had been there.

 

"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said Sherlock to the footman, who then entered with the parcels. 

 

He was answered in the negative. 

 

"Are you quite sure of it?" he demanded. "Are you certain that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"

 

The man replied that none had.

 

"How very odd!" said Sherlock, in a low and disappointed voice, as he turned away to the window.

 

"How odd, indeed!" repeated Mycroft within himself, regarding his brother with uneasiness. "If he had not known Victor Trevor to be in town, Sherlock would not have written to him by the two-penny post, as he did; he would have written to Combe Magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write! Oh! My dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a son so young, and a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to inquire; but how will _my_ interference be borne."

 

Mycroft determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, he would represent in the strongest manner to his mother the necessity of some serious enquiry into the affair.

 

Mrs. Hawkins and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Hudson's intimate acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements; and Mycroft was obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others. 

 

Sherlock was of no use on these occasions, as he would never learn the game; but though his time was therefore at his own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to him than to Mycroft, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment. Sherlock sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and he returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever he came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that they are both in town, what will happen between Sherlock and John? Find out next week, when Captain Watson is Pining.
> 
> Meanwhile, may I suggest some holiday fluff to take your mind off of Sherlock's and Mycroft's woes? I have two new offerings — [The Elves and the Brew-Maker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16787260) and [Talking in a Winter Wonderland](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16796830) — as well as a series of (twisted) classic [Johnlock Comes A-Wassailing](https://archiveofourown.org/series/591307) songs for your seasonal pleasure.


	26. Captain Watson is Pining

"If this open weather holds much longer," said Mrs. Hudson, when they met at breakfast the following morning, "Sir Michael will not like leaving Baker next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's pleasure. Poor souls! I always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much to heart."

 

"That is true," cried Sherlock, in a cheerful voice, walking to the window as he spoke, to examine the day. "I had not thought of that. This weather will keep many sportsmen in the country."

 

It was a lucky recollection; all his good spirits were restored by it. 

 

"It is charming weather for _them_ indeed," he continued, as he sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance. "How much they must enjoy it! But" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be expected to last long. At this time of the year, and after such a series of rainy days, we shall certainly have very little more of it. Frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity, in another day or two perhaps. This extreme mildness can hardly last longer — nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight!"

 

"At any rate," said Mycroft, wishing to prevent Mrs. Hudson from seeing his brother's thoughts as clearly as he did, "I dare say we shall have Sir Michael and Lady Stamford in town by the end of next week."

 

"Aye, my dear, I'll warrant you we do. My daughter always has her own way."

 

"And now," silently conjectured Mycroft, "Sherlock will write to Combe by this day's post."

 

But if he _did_ , the letter was written and sent away with a privacy which eluded all his watchfulness to ascertain the fact. Whatever the truth of it might be, and far as Mycroft was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while he saw Sherlock in spirits, he could not be very uncomfortable himself. And Sherlock _was_ in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in his expectation of a frost.

 

The morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of Mrs. Hudson's acquaintances to inform them of her being in town; and Sherlock was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air.

 

"Don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, Mycroft? There seems to me a very decided difference. I can hardly keep my hands warm even in my gloves. It was not so yesterday, I think. The clouds seem parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon."

 

Mycroft was alternately diverted and pained; but Sherlock persevered, and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost.

 

Mycroft and Sherlock had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Hudson's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind. Everything in her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Stamford's regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions. Pleased to find himself more comfortably situated in that particular than he had expected, Mycroft was very willing to excuse the lack of much real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse him.

 

Captain Watson, who had a general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to look at Sherlock and talk to Mycroft, who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much concern the Captain’s continued regard for his brother. Mycroft feared it was a strengthening regard. It grieved him to see the earnestness with which Captain Watson often watched Sherlock, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at Baker.

 

About a week after their arrival, it became certain that Victor Trevor was also arrived. His card was on the table when they came in from the morning's drive.

 

"Good God!" cried Sherlock. "He has been here while we were out." 

 

Mycroft, rejoiced to be assured of his being in London, now ventured to say, "Depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow." 

 

But Sherlock seemed hardly to hear him, and on Mrs. Hudson's entrance, escaped with the precious card.

 

This event, while it raised the spirits of Mycroft, restored to those of his brother all, and more than all, their former agitation. From this moment his mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing Victor Trevor every hour of the day made him unfit for anything. He insisted on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.

 

Mycroft's thoughts were full of what might be passing in Berkeley Street during their absence; but a moment's glance at his brother when they returned was enough to inform him that Victor Trevor had paid no second visit there. A note was just then brought in, and laid on the table.

 

"For me!" cried Sherlock, stepping hastily forward.

 

"No, sir, for my mistress."

 

But Sherlock, not convinced, took it instantly up.

 

"It is indeed for Mrs. Hudson; how provoking!"

 

"You are expecting a letter, then?" said Mycroft, unable to be longer silent.

 

"Yes, a little… Not much."

 

After a short pause. "You have no confidence in me, Sherlock."

 

"Nay, Mycroft, this reproach from _you_ — you who have confidence in no one!"

 

"Me!" returned Mycroft in some confusion. "Indeed, Sherlock, I have nothing to tell."

 

"Nor I," answered Sherlock with energy. "Our situations then are alike. We have neither of us anything to tell — you, because you do not communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing."

 

Mycroft, distressed by this charge of reserve in himself, which he was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press for greater openness in Sherlock.

 

Mrs. Hudson soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it aloud. It was from Lady Stamford, announcing their arrival in Conduit Street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and cousins the following evening. Business on Sir Michael's part, and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in Berkeley Street. The invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was in common civility to Mrs. Hudson that they should both attend her on such a visit, Mycroft had some difficulty in persuading his brother to go, for still Sherlock had seen nothing of Victor Trevor; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in their absence.

 

Mycroft found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town, Sir Michael had contrived to collect around him nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball. This was an affair, however, of which Lady Stamford did not approve. In the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in London, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few young people to have it known that Lady Stamford had given a small dance of eight or nine couples, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Hawkins were of the party. From the former, whom they had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance. He looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to Mrs. Hudson from the other side of the room. 

 

Sherlock gave one glance round the apartment as he entered: it was enough — Victor Trevor was not there — and he sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure. Never had Sherlock been so unwilling to dance in his life, as he was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise. He complained of it as they returned to Berkeley Street.

 

"Aye, aye," said Mrs. Hudson. "We know the reason of all that very well. If a certain person, who shall be nameless, had been there, you would not have been a bit tired. And to say the truth, it was not very pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited."

 

"Invited!" cried Sherlock.

 

"So my daughter told me, for it seems Sir Michael met him somewhere in the street this morning." 

 

Sherlock said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt. 

 

Impatient in this situation to be doing something that might lead to his brother's relief, Mycroft resolved to write the next morning to their mother, and hoped, by awakening her fears for the health of Sherlock, to procure those inquiries which had been so long delayed; and he was still more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving, after breakfast on the morrow, that Sherlock was again writing to Victor Trevor, for he could not suppose it to be to any other person.

 

About the middle of the day, Mrs. Hudson went out by herself on business, and Mycroft began his letter directly, while Sherlock, too restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation. Mycroft was very earnest in his application to their mother, relating all that had passed, his suspicions of Victor Trevor's inconstancy, and urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from Sherlock an account of his real situation with respect to him.

 

Mycroft’s letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and Captain Watson was announced. Sherlock, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it. Captain Watson looked more than usually grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding Mr. Holmes alone, as if he had something in particular to tell him, sat for some time without saying a word. 

 

Mycroft, persuaded that Captain Watson had some communication to make in which his brother was concerned, impatiently expected its opening. It was not the first time of his feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before, beginning with the observation of "your brother looks unwell today," or "your brother seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about him. 

 

After a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken by Captain Watson’s asking, in a voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate Mycroft on the acquisition of a brother-in-law. 

 

Mycroft was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant.

 

Captain Watson tried to smile as he replied, "Your brother's engagement to Mr. Victor Trevor is very generally known."

 

"It cannot be generally known," returned Mycroft, "for his own family do not know it."

 

Captain Watson looked surprised and said, "I beg your pardon. I am afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of."

 

"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?"

 

"By many. By some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate: Mrs. Hudson, Mrs. Hawkins, and the Stamfords. But still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Trevor in your brother's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could ask the question. 

 

“Is everything finally settled? Is it impossible to—? But I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me, Mr. Holmes. I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains."

 

These words, which conveyed to Mycroft a direct avowal of Captain Watson’s love for Sherlock, affected him very much. He was not immediately able to say anything, and even when his spirits were recovered, he debated for a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give. The real state of things between Victor Trevor and his brother was so little known to himself, that in endeavouring to explain it, he might be as liable to say too much as too little. 

 

Yet, as he was convinced that Sherlock's affection for Victor Trevor could leave no hope of Captain Watson's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield his brother’s conduct from censure, he thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than he really knew or believed. He acknowledged, therefore, that though he had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection he had no doubt, and of their correspondence he was not astonished to hear.

 

Captain Watson listened to him with silent attention, and on his ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "To your brother I wish all imaginable happiness; to Victor Trevor that he may endeavour to deserve him," — took leave, and went away.

 

Mycroft derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of his mind on other points. He was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of Captain Watson's unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by his anxiety for the very event that must confirm it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What lies in store for our heroes? I fear that next week there will be Some Dreadful Misapprehension.


	27. Some Dreadful Misapprehension

Nothing occurred during the next three or four days to make Mycroft regret what he had done, in applying to his mother; for Victor Trevor neither came nor wrote. They were engaged about the end of that time to attend Lady Stamford to a party, from which Mrs. Hudson was kept away by the indisposition of her younger daughter; and for this party, Sherlock, wholly dispirited, careless of his appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether he went or stayed, prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure. He lay on the sofa by the drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of Lady Stamford's arrival, without once stirring, or altering his attitude, lost in his own thoughts, and insensible of his brother's presence; and when at last they were told that Lady Stamford waited for them at the door, he started as if he had forgotten that anyone was expected.

 

They arrived in due time at their destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferably hot. When they had paid their tribute of politeness by bowing to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add. After some time spent in saying little and doing less, Lady Stamford sat down to Casino, and as Sherlock was not in spirits for moving about, he and Mycroft, luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table.

 

They had not remained in this manner long, before Mycroft perceived Victor Trevor, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young gentleman. Mycroft soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to him, or to approach Sherlock, though he could not fail to see him; and then continued his discourse with the same gentleman. 

 

Mycroft turned involuntarily to Sherlock, to see whether this could be unobserved by him. At that moment, Sherlock first perceived Victor Trevor, and, his whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, he would have moved towards him instantly, had not his brother caught hold of him.

 

"Good heavens!" Sherlock exclaimed. "He is there — he is there! Oh! Why does he not look at me? Why will you not let me go to him?"

 

"Pray, pray be composed," cried Mycroft, "and do not betray what you feel to everybody present. Perhaps he has not observed you yet."

 

This, however, was more than Mycroft could believe himself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of Sherlock, it was beyond his wish. He sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature.

 

At last Victor Trevor turned round again, and regarded them both. Sherlock started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out his hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Mycroft than Sherlock, as if wishing to avoid his eye, and determined not to observe his attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Holmes, and asked how long they had been in town. 

 

Mycroft was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of his brother were instantly expressed. Sherlock’s face was crimsoned over, and he exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! What is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?"

 

He could not then avoid it, but Sherlock’s touch seemed painful to him, and he held his hand only for a moment. 

 

During all this time, Mr. Trevor was evidently struggling for composure. Mycroft watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil. After a moment's pause, he spoke with calmness.

 

"I did myself the honour of calling in Berkeley Street last Tuesday, and very much regretted that I was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and Mrs. Hudson at home. My card was not lost, I hope."

 

"But have you not received my notes?" cried Sherlock in the wildest anxiety. "Here is some mistake I am sure — some dreadful mistake. What can be the meaning of it? Tell me, Victor; for heaven's sake tell me, what is the matter?"

 

He made no reply. His complexion changed, and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young gentleman with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "Yes, I had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend.

 

Sherlock, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into his chair, and Mycroft, expecting every moment to see him faint, tried to screen him from the observation of others, while reviving him with lavender water.

 

"Go to him, Mycroft," Sherlock cried, as soon as he could speak, "and force him to come to me. Tell him I must see him again — must speak to him instantly. I cannot rest — I shall not have a moment's peace till this is explained — some dreadful misapprehension or other. Oh, go to him this moment."

 

"How can that be done? No, Sherlock, you must wait. This is not the place for explanations. Wait only till tomorrow."

 

With difficulty, however, could Mycroft prevent him from following Victor Trevor himself; and to persuade him to check his agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till he might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for Sherlock continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of his feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness. 

 

In a short time Mycroft saw Victor Trevor quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling Sherlock that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening as a fresh argument for him to be calm. Sherlock instantly begged his brother to entreat Lady Stamford to take them home, as he was too miserable to stay a minute longer.

 

Lady Stamford, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that Sherlock was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to his wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon the carriage could be found. Scarcely a word was spoken during their return to Berkeley Street. Sherlock was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as Mrs. Hudson was luckily not at home, they could go directly to their own room. Sherlock was soon undressed and in bed, and as he seemed desirous of being alone, Mycroft then left him, and while he awaited the return of Mrs. Hudson, had leisure enough for thinking over the past.

 

That some kind of engagement had subsisted between Victor Trevor and Sherlock he could not doubt, and that Victor Trevor was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however Sherlock might still feed his own wishes, Mycroft could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind. Nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it. His indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had he not witnessed Mr. Trevor’s embarrassment, which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented Mycroft from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of his brother from the first, without any design that would bear investigation. Absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed Mycroft could not bring himself to doubt.

 

As for Sherlock, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given him, and on those still more severe which might await him in its probable consequence, Mycroft could not reflect without the deepest concern. His own situation gained in the comparison; for while he could esteem Greg as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, his mind might be always supported. But every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of Sherlock in a final separation from Victor Trevor — in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could be the meaning of Victor Trevor's behavior? Find out next week, when there will be An Exchange of Letters.
> 
> Happiest of holidays to you all. :)


	28. An Exchange of Letters

Before the housemaid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in January, Sherlock, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light he could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit him. In this situation, Mycroft, roused from sleep by his agitation and sobs, first perceived him; and after observing him for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,

 

"Sherlock, may I ask—?"

 

"No, Mycroft," he replied. "Ask nothing; you will soon know all."

 

The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said lasted no longer than while he spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before Sherlock could go on with his letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged him, at intervals, to withhold his pen, were proofs enough of his feeling how more than probable it was that he was writing for the last time to Victor Trevor.

 

Mycroft paid him every quiet and unobtrusive attention in his power; and he would have tried to soothe and tranquilize him still more, had not Sherlock entreated him, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to him for the world. In such circumstances, it was better for both brothers that they should not be long together; and the restless state of Sherlock's mind not only prevented him from remaining in the room a moment after he was dressed, but, requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made him wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of everybody.

 

At breakfast he neither ate, nor attempted to eat anything; and Mycroft's attention was then all employed, not in urging him, not in pitying him, nor in appearing to regard him, but in endeavouring to engage Mrs. Hudson's notice entirely to himself.

 

As this was a favourite meal with Mrs. Hudson, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to Sherlock, which he eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room. Mycroft, who saw as plainly by this, as if he had seen the direction, that it must come from Victor Trevor, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made him hardly able to hold up his head, and sat in such a general tremour as made him fear it impossible to escape Mrs. Hudson's notice. 

 

That good lady, however, saw only that Sherlock had received a letter from Victor Trevor, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that he would find it to his liking. Of Mycroft's distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see anything at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as Sherlock disappeared, she said,

 

"Upon my word, I never saw a young man so desperately in love in my life! My girls were nothing to him, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for Master Sherlock, he is quite an altered creature. I hope, from the bottom of my heart, Mr. Trevor won't keep him waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see him look so ill and forlorn. Pray, when are they to be married?"

 

Mycroft, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged himself to answer such an address as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "And have you really, Ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my brother's being engaged to Mr. Trevor? I thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and I must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer. I do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."

 

"For shame, for shame, Mr. Holmes! How can you talk so? Don't we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met? Did not I see them together in Devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not I know that your brother came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes? Come, come, this won't do. Because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, I can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long. I tell everybody of it, and so does Janine."

 

"Indeed, Ma'am," said Mycroft, very seriously, "you are mistaken. Indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have, though you will not believe me now."

 

Mrs. Hudson laughed again, but Mycroft had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what Victor Trevor had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, he saw Sherlock stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in his hand, and two or three others lying by him. Mycroft drew near, but without saying a word; and, seating himself on the bed, put a comforting hand on his shoulder. 

 

Sherlock, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time more spent in dramatic affliction, he put all the letters into Mycroft's hands; and then, covering his face with his handkerchief, almost screamed with agony. Mycroft, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by him till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then, turning eagerly to Victor Trevor's letter, read as follows:

 

_My Dear Sir,_

_I have just had the honour of receiving your letter, for which I beg to return my sincere acknowledgments. I am much concerned to find there was anything in my behaviour last night that did not meet your approbation; and though I am quite at a loss to discover in what point I could be so unfortunate as to offend you, I entreat your forgiveness of what I can assure you to have been perfectly unintentional. I shall never reflect on my former acquaintance with your family in Devonshire without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter myself it will not be broken by any mistake or misapprehension of my actions. My esteem for your whole family is very sincere; but if I have been so unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than I felt, or meant to express, I shall reproach myself for not having been more guarded in my professions of that esteem. That I should ever have meant more you will allow to be impossible, when you understand that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere, and it will not be many weeks, I believe, before this engagement is fulfilled. It is with great regret that I obey your commands in returning the letters with which I have been honoured from you, and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed on me._

_I am, dear Sir, your most obedient, humble servant, Victor Trevor_  

 

With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Mycroft, may be imagined. Though aware, before he began it, that it must bring a confession of Victor Trevor’s inconstancy, and confirm their separation forever, he was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could he have supposed Victor Trevor capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling — so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing, with his desire of a release, any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all particular affection whatever — a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy.

 

Mycroft paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase his abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were his feelings against him, that he dared not trust himself to speak, lest he might wound Sherlock still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to him of any possible good, but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.

 

In his earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the very different mind of a very different person, who had no other connection whatever with the affair than what his heart gave him with everything that passed, Mycroft forgot the immediate distress of his brother, forgot that he had three letters on his lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how long he had been in the room, that when, on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, he went to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably early, he was all astonishment to perceive Mrs. Hudson's chariot, which he knew had not been ordered till one. 

 

Determined not to quit Sherlock, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to his ease, Mycroft hurried away to excuse himself from attending Mrs. Hudson, on account of his brother being indisposed. Mrs. Hudson, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and Mycroft, after seeing her safely off, returned to Sherlock, whom he found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom he reached just in time to prevent him from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since he had any appetite, and many nights since he had really slept; and now, when his mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness. 

 

A glass of wine, which Mycroft procured for him directly, made Sherlock more comfortable, and he was at last able to express some sense of his brother’s kindness, by saying,

 

"Poor Mycroft! How unhappy I make you!"

 

"I only wish," replied his brother, "there were anything I could do, which might be of comfort to you."

 

This, as everything else would have been, was too much for Sherlock, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of his heart, "Oh! Mycroft, I am miserable, indeed!” before his voice was entirely lost in sobs.

 

Mycroft could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence.

 

"Exert yourself, dear Sherlock," he cried, "if you would not kill yourself and all who love you. Think of our mother; think of her misery while _you_ suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."

 

"I cannot, I cannot," cried Sherlock. "Leave me, leave me, if I distress you! Leave me, hate me, forget me! But do not torture me so. Oh! How easy for those who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion! Happy, happy Mycroft, _you_ cannot have an idea of what I suffer."

 

"Do you call _me_ happy, Sherlock? Ah! If you knew! — And can you believe me to be so, while I see you so wretched!"

 

"Forgive me; I know you feel for me; but yet you are — you _must_ be happy. Greg loves you! What, oh what, can do away such happiness as that?"

 

"Many, many circumstances," said Mycroft, solemnly.

 

"No, no, no!” cried Sherlock wildly. "He loves you, and only you. You _can_ have no grief."

 

"I can have no pleasure while I see you in this state."

 

"And you will never see me otherwise. Mine is a misery which nothing can do away."

 

"You must not talk so, Sherlock. Have you no comforts? No friends? Is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation? Much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period — if your engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it. Every additional day of confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful."

 

"Engagement!" cried Sherlock. "There has been no engagement."

 

"No engagement!”

 

"No, he is not so unworthy as you believe him. He has broken no faith with me."

 

"But he told you that he loved you."

 

"Yes — no — never absolutely. It was every day implied, but never professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been — but it never was."

 

"Yet you wrote to him?" 

 

“Yes. Could that be wrong after all that had passed? —  But I cannot talk."

 

Mycroft said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all. The first, which was what his brother had sent Victor Trevor on their arrival in town, was to this effect.

 

_How surprised you will be, Victor, on receiving this; and I think you will feel something more than surprise, when you know that I am in town. An opportunity of coming hither, with Mrs. Hudson, was a temptation we could not resist. I wish you may receive this in time to come here tonight, but I will not depend on it. At any rate I shall expect you tomorrow. For the present, adieu._

_S.H._

 

His second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the Stamfords', was in these words: 

 

_I cannot express my disappointment in having missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment at not having received any answer to a note which I sent you above a week ago. I have been expecting to hear from you, and still more to see you, every hour of the day. Pray call again as soon as possible, and explain the reason of my having expected this in vain. You had better come earlier another time, because we are generally out by one. We were last night at Lady Stamford's, where there was a dance. I have been told that you were asked to be of the party. But could it be so? You must be very much altered indeed since we parted, if that could be the case, and you not there. But I will not suppose this possible, and I hope very soon to receive your personal assurance of its being otherwise._

_S.H._

 

The contents of Sherlock’s last note to him were these: 

 

_What am I to imagine, Victor, by your behaviour last night? Again I demand an explanation of it. I was prepared to meet you with the pleasure which our separation naturally produced, with the familiarity which our intimacy at Baker appeared to me to justify. I was repulsed indeed! I have passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse a conduct which can scarcely be called less than insulting; but though I have not yet been able to form any reasonable apology for your behaviour, I am perfectly ready to hear your justification of it. You have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely deceived, in something concerning me, which may have lowered me in your opinion. Tell me what it is, explain the grounds on which you acted, and I shall be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you. It would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill of you; but if I am to do it, if I am to learn that you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that your regard for us all was insincere, that your behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let it be told as soon as possible. My feelings are at present in a state of dreadful indecision; I wish to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be ease to what I now suffer. If your sentiments are no longer what they were, you will return my notes, and the lock of my hair which is in your possession._

_S.H._

 

That such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so answered, Mycroft, for Victor Trevor's sake, would have been unwilling to believe. But his condemnation of the man did not blind him to the impropriety of their having been written at all; and he was silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when Sherlock, perceiving that he had finished the letters, observed to him that they contained nothing but what anyone would have written in the same situation.

 

"I felt myself," he added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other."

 

"I can believe it," said Mycroft; "but unfortunately he did not feel the same."

 

"He _did_ feel the same, Mycroft — for weeks and weeks he felt it. I know he did. Whatever may have changed him now (and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can have done it) I was once as dear to him as my own soul could wish. This lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication. Had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that moment! Could you forget the last evening of our being together at Baker? The morning that we parted, too! When he told me that it might be many weeks before we met again — his distress — can I ever forget his distress?"

 

For a moment or two Sherlock could say no more; but when this emotion had passed away, he added, in a firmer tone, "Mycroft, I have been cruelly used; but not by Victor Trevor."

 

"Dearest Sherlock, who but himself? By whom can he have been instigated?"

 

"By all the world, rather than by his own heart. I could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. Anyone but your own self, Mummy, and Greg, may have been so barbarous to belie me. Beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom I would not rather suspect of evil than Victor Trevor, whose heart I know so well?"

 

Mycroft would not argue, and only replied, "Whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear brother, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits. It is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence."

 

"No, no!” cried Sherlock. "Misery such as mine has no pride. I care not who knows that I am wretched. The triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world. Mycroft, Mycroft, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like — may resist insult, or return mortification — but I cannot. I must feel — I must be wretched — and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can."

 

"But for our mother's sake and mine — "

 

"I would do more than for my own. But to appear happy when I am so miserable — Oh! who can require it?"

 

Again they were both silent. Mycroft was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that he received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other; and Sherlock, seated at the foot of the bed, with his head leaning against one of its posts, again took up Victor Trevor's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed — 

 

"It is too much! Oh, Victor, Victor, could this be yours! Cruel, cruel — nothing can acquit you. Mycroft, nothing can. Whatever he might have heard against me — ought he not to have suspended his belief? Ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself? 'The lock of hair,” (repeating it from the letter) “which you so obligingly bestowed on me' — That is unpardonable. Victor, where was your heart when you wrote those words? Oh, barbarously insolent! — Mycroft, can he be justified?"

 

"No, Sherlock, in no possible way."

 

"And yet this other person he mentions, to whom he claims to be engaged — who knows what his art may have been? How long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived! Who can it be? Whom did I ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his acquaintances? Oh! No one, no one — he talked to me only of myself."

 

Another pause ensued; Sherlock was greatly agitated, and it ended thus:

 

"Mycroft, I must go home. I must go and comfort Mummy. Can not we be gone tomorrow?"

 

"Tomorrow, Sherlock!"

 

"Yes, why should I stay here? I came only for Victor Trevor's sake. And now, who cares for me? Who regards me?"

 

"It would be impossible to go tomorrow. We owe Mrs. Hudson much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that."

 

“Well, then, another day or two, perhaps; but I cannot stay here long, I cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people. How am I to bear their pity? The pity of such a woman as Lady Stamford! Oh, what would _he_ say to that!"

 

Mycroft advised him to lie down again, and for a moment Sherlock did so. But no attitude could give him ease; and in restless pain of mind and body he moved from one posture to another, till, growing more and more agitated, his brother could with difficulty keep him on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance. Some lavender drops, however, which he was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till Mrs. Hudson returned, he continued on the bed, quiet and motionless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it seems that is the end of Sherlock's romance with Victor Trevor. Next week, find out if what they say about An Ill Wind is true...


	29. An Ill Wind

Mrs. Hudson came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern.

 

"How do you do my dear?" said she in a voice of great compassion to Sherlock, who turned away his face without attempting to answer.

 

"How is he, Mr. Holmes? Poor thing! He looks very bad. No wonder. Aye, it is but too true. Mr. Trevor is to be married very soon — a good-for-nothing fellow! I have no patience with him. Mrs. Turner told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of Mr. Milverton himself, else I am sure I should not have believed it; and I was almost ready to sink as it was. 

 

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘all I can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young gentleman of my acquaintance abominably ill, and I wish with all my soul his husband may plague his heart out.’ And so I shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it. I have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever I meet him again, I will give him such a dressing down as he has not had this many a day. 

 

“But there is one comfort: Victor Trevor is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with Sherlock’s handsome face, he will never want admirers. Well, poor thing! I won't disturb him any longer, for he had better have his cry out at once and have done with."

 

She then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.

 

Sherlock, to the surprise of his brother, determined on dining with them. Mycroft even advised him against it. But no: he insisted he would go down; he could bear it very well, and the bustle about him would be less. 

 

Mycroft, pleased to have him governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that he could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting his clothes for him as well as he could, while Sherlock still remained on the bed, was ready to assist him into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.

 

When there, though looking most wretched, Sherlock ate more and was calmer than his brother had expected. Had he tried to speak, or had he been conscious of half Mrs. Hudson's well-meant but ill-judged attentions to him, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped his lips; and the abstraction of his thoughts preserved him in ignorance of everything that was passing before him.

 

Mycroft, who did justice to Mrs. Hudson's kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which his brother could not make or return for himself. Their good friend saw that Sherlock was unhappy, and felt that everything was due to him which might make him at all less so. She treated him, therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of his holidays. Sherlock was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day. 

 

Had not Mycroft, in the sad countenance of his brother, seen a check to all mirth, he could have been entertained by Mrs. Hudson's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire. As soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on Sherlock, he could stay no longer. With a hasty exclamation of misery, and a sign to his brother not to follow him, he directly got up and hurried out of the room.

 

"Poor soul!" cried Mrs. Hudson, as soon as he was gone. "How it grieves me to see him! And I declare, he has gone away without finishing his wine! And the dried cherries too! Lord! Nothing seems to do him any good. I am sure if I knew of anything he would like, I would send all over the town for it. Well, it is the oddest thing to me, that anyone should use such a handsome young man so ill! But when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, Lord bless you! They care no more about such things!"

 

"The gentleman, then — Mr. Milverton, I think you called him — is very rich?"

 

"Fifty thousand pounds, my dear. Did you ever see him? A smart, stylish gentleman, they say, but not handsome. The family are all rich together. Fifty thousand pounds! And by all accounts, it won't come before it's wanted; for they say Mr. Trevor is all to pieces. No wonder! Dashing about with his curricle and hunters! Well, it don't signify talking; but when anyone, be he who he will, falls in love with a handsome young man, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer gentleman is ready to have him. Why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once? I warrant you, Master Sherlock would have been ready to wait till matters came round. But that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age."

 

"Do you know what kind of a man Mr. Milverton is? Is he said to be amiable?"

 

"I hardly ever heard him mentioned; except that Mrs. Turner did say this morning that she believed Mr. and Mrs. Ellison would not be sorry to have Mr. Milverton married." 

 

"And who are the Ellisons?"

 

"His guardians, my dear. But now he is of age and may choose for himself; and a pretty choice he has made!”

 

After pausing a moment, Mrs. Hudson continued, "Your poor brother has gone to his own room, I suppose, to moan by himself. Is there nothing one can get to comfort him? Poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let him be alone. Well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse him a little. What shall we play at? He hates whist I know; but is there no round game he cares for?"

 

"Dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary. Sherlock, I dare say, will not leave his room again this evening. I shall persuade him if I can to go early to bed, for I am sure he wants rest."

 

"Aye, I believe that will be best for him. Let him name his own supper, and go to bed. Lord! No wonder he has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter I suppose has been hanging over his head as long as that. And so the letter that came today finished it! Poor soul! I am sure if I had had a notion of it, I would not have joked him about it for all my money. But then, you know, how should I guess such a thing? I made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them. 

 

“Lord! How concerned Sir Michael and my daughters will be when they hear it! If I had my senses about me I might have called in Conduit Street in my way home, and told them of it. But I shall see them tomorrow."

 

"It would be unnecessary, I am sure, for you to caution your daughters or Sir Michael against ever naming Mr. Trevor, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my brother. Their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know anything about it when he is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you, my dear madam, will easily believe."

 

"Oh! Lord! Yes, that I do indeed. It must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your brother, I am sure I would not mention a word about it to him for the world. You saw I did not all dinner time. No more would Sir Michael, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if I give them a hint, as I certainly will. For my part, I think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot. And what does talking ever do, you know?"

 

"In this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of everyone concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation. I must do this justice to Mr. Trevor — he has broken no positive engagement with my brother."

 

"Law, my dear! Don't pretend to defend him. No positive engagement indeed! After taking him all over Allenham House, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"

 

Mycroft, for his brother's sake, could not press the subject farther, and he hoped it was not required of him for Victor Trevor's; since, though Sherlock might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth. 

 

After a short silence on both sides, Mrs. Hudson burst forth again. "Well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for Captain Watson. He will have your brother at last; aye, that he will. Mind me, now, if they aren't married by Mid-summer. Lord! How he'll chuckle over this news! I hope he will come tonight. 

 

“It will be all to one a better match for your brother. Two thousand a year without debt or drawback — except his ward, indeed; aye, I had forgot her; but she may be apprenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify? Delaford is a nice place, I can tell you; exactly what I call a nice old-fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner! Then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful ponds, and a very pretty canal; and everything, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along. 

 

“Oh! 'Tis a nice place! A butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw. To my fancy, a thousand times prettier than Baker Manor, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother. Well, I shall spirit up the Captain as soon as I can. If we can but put Victor Trevor out of your brother’s head!"

 

"Aye, if we can do _that_ , Ma'am," said Mycroft, "we shall do very well, with or without Captain Watson." 

 

Then, rising, he went away to join Sherlock, whom he found, as he expected, in their own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till Mycroft's entrance, had been his only light.

 

"You had better leave me," was all the notice that Mycroft received from him.

 

"I will leave you," said Mycroft, "if you will go to bed." 

 

But this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, Sherlock at first refused to do. His brother's earnest, though gentle, persuasion, however, eventually softened him to compliance, and Mycroft saw him lay his aching head on the pillow, and, as he hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest, before he left him.

 

In the drawing-room, whither Mycroft then repaired, he was soon joined by Mrs. Hudson, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.

 

"My dear," said she, entering, "I have just recollected that I have some of the finest old Constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so I have brought a glass of it for your brother. My poor husband! How fond he was of it! Whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than anything else in the world. Do take it to your brother."

 

"Dear Ma'am," replied Mycroft, smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are! But I have just left Sherlock in bed, and, I hope, almost asleep; and as I think nothing will be of so much service to him as rest, if you will give me leave, I will drink the wine myself."

 

Mrs. Hudson, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and Mycroft, as he swallowed the chief of it, reflected that, though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to him, its healing powers on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on himself as on his brother.

 

Captain Watson came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for Sherlock, Mycroft immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see him there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned his absence. 

 

Mrs. Hudson was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where Mycroft presided, and whispered, "The Captain looks as grave as ever, you see. He knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear."

 

Captain Watson shortly afterwards drew a chair close to Mycroft’s, and, with a look which perfectly assured him of his good information, inquired after his brother.

 

"Sherlock is not well," said Mycroft. "He has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded him to go to bed."

 

"Perhaps, then,” Captain Watson hesitatingly replied, "what I heard this morning may be — there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at first."

 

"What did you hear?"

 

"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think — in short, that a man, whom I _knew_ to be engaged — but how shall I tell you? If you know it already, as surely you must, I may be spared."

 

"You mean," answered Mycroft, with forced calmness, "Mr. Trevor's marriage with Mr. Milverton. Yes, we _do_ know it all. This seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us. Mr. Trevor is unfathomable! Where did you hear it?"

 

"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business. Two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all. The name of Victor Trevor, frequently repeated, first caught my attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that everything was now finally settled respecting his marriage with Charles Augustus Milverton. 

 

“It was no longer to be a secret — it would take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters. One thing, especially, I remember, because it served to identify the man still more: as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to Combe Magna, his seat in Somersetshire. My astonishment! — But it would be impossible to describe what I felt. The communicative lady, I learnt, on inquiry, for I stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a Mrs. Ellison, and that, as I have been since informed, is the name of Mr. Milverton’s guardian."

 

"It is. But have you likewise heard that Mr. Milverton has fifty thousand pounds? In that, if in anything, we may find an explanation."

 

"It may be so; but Victor Trevor is capable — at least I think —” He stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "And your brother — how did he…”

 

"His sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they may be proportionately short. It has been, it is a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, he never doubted Mr. Trevor’s regard; and even now, perhaps — but I am almost convinced that Mr. Trevor never was really attached to my brother. He has been very deceitful! And, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."

 

"Ah!" said Captain Watson, "there is, indeed! But your brother does not — I think you said so — he does not consider the matter quite as you do?"

 

"You know his disposition, and may believe how eagerly he would still justify Mr. Trevor if he could."

 

Captain Watson made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily dropped. Mrs. Hudson, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of Mr. Holmes' communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on Captain Watson's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next week, when Captain Watson has Something to Say about Victor Trevor.


	30. Captain Watson has Something to Say about Victor Trevor

From a night of more sleep than he had expected, Sherlock awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which he had closed his eyes.

 

Mycroft encouraged him as much as possible to talk of what he felt; and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on Mycroft's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on Sherlock's, as before. Sometimes he could believe Victor Trevor to be as unfortunate and as innocent as himself, and at others, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him. 

 

At one moment Sherlock was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at another he would seclude himself from it forever, and at a third could resist it with energy. In one thing, however, he was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of Mrs. Hudson, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it. After all her former teasing on the subject, his heart was hardened against the belief of Mrs. Hudson's entering into his sorrows with any compassion.

 

"No, no, no, it cannot be," he cried. "She cannot really feel for me. Her kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it."

 

Mycroft had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which his brother was often led in his opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of his own mind, and the too great importance placed by him on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner. Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Sherlock, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. He expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as his own, and he judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on himself. 

 

Thus a circumstance occurred, while the brothers were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of Mrs. Hudson still lower in Sherlock’s estimation; because, through his own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to himself, though Mrs. Hudson was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill. 

 

With a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying, ”Now, my dear, I bring you something that I am sure will do you good."

 

Sherlock heard enough. In one moment, his imagination placed before him a letter from Victor Trevor, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing, and instantly followed by Victor Trevor himself, rushing eagerly into the room to enforce, at Sherlock’s feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter. The work of one moment was destroyed by the next. The handwriting of his mother, never till then unwelcome, was before him; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, he felt as if, till that instant, he had never suffered.

 

The inadvertent cruelty of Mrs. Hudson, no language, within Sherlock’s reach in his moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now he could reproach her only by the tears which streamed from his eyes with passionate violence — a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring him to the letter of comfort. 

 

But the letter, when Sherlock was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort. Victor Trevor filled every page. His mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by Mycroft's application, to entreat from Sherlock greater openness towards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards him, such affection for Victor Trevor, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that he wept with agony through the whole of it.

 

All Sherlock’s impatience to be at home again now returned; his mother was dearer to him than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken confidence in Victor Trevor, and he was wildly urgent to be gone. Mycroft, unable himself to determine whether it were better for Sherlock to be in London or at Baker, offered no counsel of his own except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length he obtained his brother's consent to wait for that knowledge.

 

Mrs. Hudson left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy till the Stamfords and Hawkinses were able to grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing Mycroft's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning. Mycroft, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain he was going to communicate, and perceiving, by the letter to Sherlock, how ill he had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write their mother an account of what had passed, and entreat her directions for the future; while Sherlock, who came into the drawing-room on Mrs. Hudson's going away, remained fixed at the table where Mycroft wrote, watching the advancement of his pen, grieving over him for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect on their mother.

 

In this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when Sherlock, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door.

 

"Who can this be?" cried Mycroft. "So early, too! I thought we had been safe."

 

Sherlock moved to the window. 

 

"It is Captain Watson!" said he, with vexation. "We are never safe from _him_."

 

"He will not come in, as Mrs. Hudson is from home."

 

"I will not trust to _that_ ," said Sherlock, retreating to his own room. "A man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others."

 

The event proved his conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice and error; for Captain Watson _did_ come in; and Mycroft, who was convinced that solicitude for Sherlock brought him thither, and who saw that solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though brief inquiry after him, could not forgive his brother for esteeming him so lightly.

 

"I met Mrs. Hudson in Bond Street," said Captain Watson, after the first salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object — my wish — my sole wish in desiring it — I hope, I believe it is — is to be a means of giving comfort. No, I must not say comfort — not present comfort — but conviction, lasting conviction to your brother's mind. My regard for him, for yourself, for your mother — will you allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances which nothing but a very sincere regard — nothing but an earnest desire of being useful — I think I am justified — though where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?" 

 

He stopped.

 

"I understand you," said Mycroft. "You have something to tell me of Victor Trevor, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Sherlock. _My_ gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that end, and _his_ must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me hear it."

 

"You shall; though I am afraid you will find me a very awkward narrator, Mr. Holmes; I hardly know where to begin. A short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary.”

 

He stopped a moment for recollection, and then, with a sigh, went on.

 

"You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation between us one evening at Baker Manor, in which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some measure, your brother Sherlock."

 

"Indeed," answered Mycroft, "I have _not_ forgotten it." 

 

Captain Watson looked pleased by this remembrance, and added,

 

"If I am not deceived by the partiality of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them. The same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits, the same quickness of mind. This lady — an orphan from her infancy — was under the guardianship of my father. She was only a few years my senior, and from our earliest years we were playfellows and friends. I cannot remember the time when I did not love Mary; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such as, perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of having ever felt. 

 

“Poor Mary. At seventeen, she was married — married against her inclination — to my elder brother. Her fortune was large, and this, I fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of my father, her guardian. My brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her. 

 

“Had her marriage been happy, so young as I then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at least I should not have now to lament it. This, however, was not the case. My brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly. The consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as Mary's, was but too natural. 

 

“She resigned herself, at first, to all the misery of her situation. But can we wonder that, with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father had sent me off to my regiment in the East Indies) she should fall? 

 

“The shock which her marriage had given me," he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling weight — was nothing to what I felt when I heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce. It was _that_ which created this gloom. Even now, the recollection of what I suffered — "

 

He could say no more, and, rising hastily, walked for a few minutes about the room.

 

Mycroft, affected by what he related, and still more by his distress, could not speak. 

 

A few minutes more of silent exertion enabled Captain Watson to proceed with composure.

 

"It was nearly three years after this unhappy period before I returned to England. My first care, when I did arrive, was of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy. I could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin. Her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and I learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person. He imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief. 

 

“At last, however, and after I had been six months in England, I _did_ find her, in a sponging-house, confined for debt. So altered — so faded — worn down by acute suffering of every kind! Hardly could I believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom I had once doted. 

 

“What I endured in so beholding her — but I have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it — I have pained you too much already. That she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of consumption, was — yes, in such a situation it was my greatest comfort. Life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was given. I saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; I visited her every day during the rest of her short life. I was with her in her last moments."

 

Again he stopped to recover himself; and Mycroft spoke his feelings in an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.

 

"Your brother, I hope, cannot be offended," said Captain Watson, "by the resemblance I have fancied between him and my poor disgraced relation. Their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see him be. 

 

“But to what does all this lead? I seem to have been distressing you for nothing. Ah! Mr. Holmes — a subject such as this — untouched for so long — it is dangerous to handle it at all! I _will_ be more collected — more concise. 

 

“Mary left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about four years old. It was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would I have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but I had no family, no home; and my little Rosamund was therefore placed at school. I saw her there whenever I could, and after the death of my father and brother, which left to me the possession of the family property, she visited me frequently at Delaford. 

 

“But last February, almost a twelvemonth back, Rosamund suddenly disappeared. I had allowed her (imprudently, as it has since turned out) at her earnest desire, to go to Bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there for his health. I knew him to be a very good sort of man, and I thought well of his daughter — better than she deserved; for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all. Her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, I believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business. In short, I could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture. What I thought, what I feared, may be imagined; and what I suffered too."

 

"Good heavens!" cried Mycroft. "Could it be — could Victor Trevor—?”

 

"The first news that reached me of her," Captain Watson continued, "came in a letter from herself, last October. It was forwarded to me from Delaford, and I received it on the very morning of our intended party to Whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving Baker Manor so suddenly, which I am sure must at the time have appeared strange to everybody, and which I believe gave offence to some. 

 

“Little did Mr. Trevor imagine, I suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that I was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but _had_ he known it, what would it have availed? Would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your brother? No, he had already done that which no man who can feel for another would do. He had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address! He had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her."

 

"This is beyond everything!" exclaimed Mycroft.

 

"His character is now before you: expensive, dissipated, and worse than both. Knowing all this, as I have now known it many weeks, you may guess what I must have felt on seeing your brother as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that he was to marry him. You may guess what I must have felt for all your sakes. 

 

“When I came to you last week and found you alone, I came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it _was_ known. My behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it. To suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your brother…” 

 

“But what could I do? I had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes I thought your brother's influence might yet reclaim him. But now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were Victor Trevor’s designs on him. 

 

“Whatever they may have been, however, your brother may now, and hereafter doubtless _will,_ turn with gratitude towards his own condition, when he compares it with that of my poor Rosamund, when he considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her, with an affection for Mr. Trevor still as strong as his own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life. 

 

“Surely this comparison must have its use with your brother. He will feel his own sufferings to be nothing. They proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace. On the contrary, every friend must be made still more his friend by them. Concern for his unhappiness, and respect for his fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment. 

 

“Use your own discretion, however, in communicating to your brother what I have told you. You must know best what will be its effect; but had I not seriously, and from my heart, believed it might be of service, might lessen his regrets, I would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others."

 

Mycroft's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of his expecting material advantage to Sherlock, from the communication of what had passed.

 

"I have been more pained," said Mycroft, "by Sherlock’s endeavors to acquit Victor Trevor than by all the rest; for it irritates his mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do. Now, though at first he will suffer much, I am sure he will soon become easier.”

 

“Have you," he continued, after a short silence, "ever seen Mr. Trevor since you left him at Baker?"

 

"Yes," Captain Watson replied gravely, "once I have. One meeting was unavoidable."

 

Mycroft, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying, "What? Have you met him to duel?"

 

"I could meet him no other way. Rosamund had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment — he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."

 

Mycroft sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to an officer such as Captain Watson, he presumed not to censure it.

 

"Such," said Captain Watson, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter! And so imperfectly have I discharged my trust!"

 

"Is your ward still in town?"

 

"No; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for I found her near her delivery, I removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains."

 

Recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing Mycroft from his brother, Captain Watson put an end to his visit, receiving from him again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving Mycroft full of compassion and esteem for him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for not posting last week. My car was totaled, and I completely forgot. Given the timing, I hope those of you who've been following Sherlock of Green Gables didn't think I'd put this story on hiatus, too, without letting you know. Not to worry: I'm planning to stick to my regular weekly updates with this fic. Also, I'm fine and I have a new car. 
> 
> What do you think will be the outcome of Captain Watson's disclosure to Mycroft? Find out next week, when Sherlock Learns the Truth about Victor Trevor.


	31. Sherlock Learns the Truth about Victor Trevor

When the particulars of his conversation with Captain Watson were repeated by Mycroft to his brother, as they very soon were, the effect on him was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see. Not that Sherlock appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for he listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of Victor Trevor, and seemed to show by his tears that he felt any vindication to be impossible. 

 

But though this behaviour assured Mycroft that the conviction of this guilt was carried home to Sherlock’s mind, though he saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in Sherlock’s no longer avoiding Captain Watson when he called, in his speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though he saw Sherlock’s spirits less violently irritated than before, he did not see him less wretched. Sherlock’s mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection. 

 

He felt the loss of Victor Trevor's character yet more heavily than he had felt the loss of his heart. His seduction and desertion of Miss Morstan, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might once have been on himself, preyed altogether so much on Sherlock’s spirits, that he could not bring himself to speak of what he felt even to Mycroft; and, brooding over his sorrows in silence, gave more pain to his brother than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them.

 

To give the feelings or the language of Mrs. Holmes, on receiving and answering Mycroft's letter, would be only to give a repetition of what her sons had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than Sherlock's, and an indignation even greater than Mycroft's. Long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for Sherlock, and entreat he would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune. Bad indeed must the nature of Sherlock's affliction be, when his mother could talk of fortitude! Mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which _she_ could wish him not to indulge!

 

Against the interest of her own individual comfort, Mrs. Holmes had determined that it would be better for Sherlock to be anywhere, at that time, than at Baker, where everything within his view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing Victor Trevor before him, such as he had always seen him there. She recommended it to her sons, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to Mrs. Hudson; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks. A variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at Baker, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, tempt Sherlock, at times, into some interest beyond himself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by him.

 

From all danger of seeing Victor Trevor again, his mother considered him to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since Mr. Trevor’s acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves Sherlock’s friends. Design could never bring them in each other's way; negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and even chance had less in its favour in the crowd of London than in the retirement of Baker, where it might force Mr. Trevor before them while paying that visit to Lady Smallwood at Allenham on his marriage, which Mrs. Holmes, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.

 

She had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were: a letter from James Moriarty had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the middle of February, and she judged it right that they should sometimes see their cousin.

 

Sherlock had promised to be guided by his mother's opinion, and he submitted to it, therefore, without opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what he wished and expected — though he felt it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds — and that by requiring his longer continuance in London it deprived him of the only possible alleviation of his wretchedness — the personal sympathy of his mother — and doomed him to such society and such scenes as must prevent his ever knowing a moment's rest.

 

But it was a matter of great consolation to him, that what brought evil to himself would bring good to his brother; and Mycroft, on the other hand, suspecting that it would not be in his power to avoid Greg entirely, comforted himself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore militate against his own happiness, it would be better for Sherlock than an immediate return into Devonshire.

 

Mycroft’s carefulness in guarding his brother from ever hearing Victor Trevor's name mentioned was not thrown away. Sherlock, though without knowing it himself, reaped all its advantage, for neither Mrs. Hudson, nor Sir Michael, nor even Mrs. Hawkins herself, ever spoke of the man before him. Mycroft wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards himself, but that was impossible, and he was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all.

 

Sir Michael could not have thought it possible: A man of whom he had always had such reason to think well! Such a good-natured fellow! He did not believe there was a bolder rider in England! It was an unaccountable business. He wished him at the devil with all his heart. He would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world! Such a scoundrel of a fellow! Such a deceitful dog!

 

Mrs. Hawkins, in her way, was equally angry: She was determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at all. She wished with all her heart Combe Magna was not so near Cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far off to visit. She hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she saw how good-for-nothing he was.

 

The rest of Mrs. Hawkins' sympathy was shown in procuring all the particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them to Mycroft. She could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage was being built, by what painter Mr. Trevor's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Mr. Milverton's clothes might be seen.

 

The calm and polite unconcern of Lady Stamford on the occasion was a happy relief to Mycroft's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others. It was a great comfort to him to be sure of exciting no interest in _one_ person at least among their circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was _one_ who would meet him without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for his brother's health. Every quality is raised, at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real value; and he was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature. Lady Stamford expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "It is very shocking, indeed!" By the means of this continual though gentle vent, she was able not only to see Mycroft and Sherlock from the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter.

 

Captain Watson's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome to Mycroft. He had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of Sherlock's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence. 

 

Captain Watson’s chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations was given in the pitying eye with which Sherlock sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of his voice whenever (though it did not often happen) he was obliged, or could oblige himself, to speak to him. These assured Captain Watson that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and gave Mycroft hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter.

 

Mrs. Hudson, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the Captain continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the offer to Sherlock himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of Midsummer, they would not be married till Michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all. The good understanding between the Captain and Mycroft seemed rather to declare that the honours would all be made over to _him_ ; and Mrs. Hudson had, for some time, ceased to think at all of Mr. Lestrade.

 

Early in February, within a fortnight from the receipt of Victor Trevor's letter, Mycroft had the painful office of informing his brother that Mr. Trevor and Mr. Milverton were married. He had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to himself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as he was desirous that Sherlock should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which he saw him eagerly examining every morning.

 

Sherlock received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, he was in a state hardly less pitiable than when he first learnt to expect the event.

 

The Milverton-Trevors left town as soon as they were married; and Mycroft now hoped, as there could be no danger of their seeing either of them, to prevail on his brother, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as he had done before.

 

About this time, Miss Molly Hooper and Miss Sally Donovan, lately arrived at their cousin's house in Bartlett's Buildings, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in Conduit and Berkeley Streets; and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.

 

Mycroft only was sorry to see them. Their presence always gave him pain, and he hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering delight of Sally in finding him _still_ in town.

 

"I should have been quite disappointed if I had not found you here _still_ ," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word. "But I always thought I should. I was almost sure you would not leave London yet awhile; though you _told_ me, you know, at Baker, that you should not stay above a month. But I thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your mind when it came to the point. It would have been such a great pity to have gone away before your cousin and Mrs. Moriarty came. And now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone. I am amazingly glad you did not keep to your word."

 

Mycroft perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all his self-command to make it appear that he did not.

 

"Well, my dear," said Mrs. Hudson, "and how did you travel?"

 

"Not in the stage, I assure you," replied Miss Hooper, with quick exultation. "Dr. Sarah Sawyer was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join her in a post-chaise; and she behaved very genteelly, and paid me great attention."

 

"Oh, oh!" cried Mrs. Hudson. "Very pretty, indeed! And the Doctor is a single lady, I warrant you."

 

"There now," said Miss Hooper, blushing. "Everybody laughs at me so about the Doctor, and I cannot think why. My cousins say they are sure I have made a conquest; but for my part I declare I never think about her from one hour's end to another."

 

"Aye, aye, that is very pretty talking — but it won't do — the Doctor is the one, I see."

 

"No, indeed!" replied her cousin, with affected earnestness. "And I beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."

 

Mrs. Hudson directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would _not_ , and Molly was made completely happy.

 

"I suppose you will go and stay with your cousin and his wife, Mr. Holmes, when they come to town," said Sally, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.

 

"No, I do not think we shall."

 

"Oh, yes, I dare say you will."

 

Mycroft would not humour her by farther opposition.

 

"What a charming thing it is that Mrs. Holmes can spare you both for so long a time together!"

 

"Long a time, indeed!" interposed Mrs. Hudson. "Why, their visit is but just begun!"

 

Sally was silenced.

 

"I am sorry we cannot see your brother, Mr. Holmes," said Miss Hooper. "I am sorry he is not well—" for Sherlock had left the room on their arrival.

 

"You are very good. My brother will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but he has been very much plagued lately with nervous headaches, which make him unfit for company or conversation."

 

"Oh, dear, that is a great pity! But such old friends as Sally and me! — I think he might see _us_ ; and I am sure we would not speak a word."

 

Mycroft, with great civility, declined the proposal. His brother was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in his dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them.

 

"Oh, if that's all," cried Molly, "we can just as well go and see _him_."

 

Mycroft began to find this impertinence too much for his temper; but he was saved the trouble of checking it, by Sally's sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one cousin, was of advantage in governing those of the other. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What lies in store for next week? A Meeting with James Moriarty.


	32. A Meeting with James Moriarty

After some opposition, Sherlock yielded to his brother's entreaties, and consented to go out with him and Mrs. Hudson one morning for half an hour. He expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to Gray's in Sackville Street, where Mycroft was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of their mother.

 

When they stopped at the door, Mrs. Hudson recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at Gray's, it was resolved that while her young friends transacted theirs, she should pay her visit and return for them.

 

On ascending the stairs, Mycroft and Sherlock found so many people before them in the room that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait. All that could be done was to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that Mycroft was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch. But the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness. He was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two young gentlemen, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on Mycroft the remembrance of a person and face of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion.

 

Sherlock was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all; for he was as well able to collect his thoughts within himself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around him, in Mr. Gray's shop, as in his own bedroom.

 

At last the affair was decided. The ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the Holmes brothers, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.

 

Mycroft lost no time in bringing his business forward. He was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at his side. Mycroft turned his eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be his cousin, James Moriarty.

 

Their expressions of affection and pleasure in meeting were just enough to make a very creditable appearance in Mr. Gray's shop. James Moriarty announced that he and Irene had been in town two days.

 

"I wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take Jimmy to see the wild beasts at Exeter Exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with Mrs. Lestrade. Jimmy was vastly pleased. _This_ morning I had fully intended to call on you, if I could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town. I am come here to bespeak Irene a seal. 

 

“But tomorrow I think I shall certainly be able to call in Berkeley Street, and be introduced to your friend Mrs. Hudson. I understand she is a woman of very good fortune. And the Stamfords, too — you must introduce me to _them_. As your relations, I shall be happy to show them every respect. They are very rich, and excellent neighbours to you in the country, I understand."

 

"Excellent indeed. Their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than I can express."

 

"I am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed. But so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected. And so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing! Greg brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond anything. It was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, I assure you."

 

Mycroft did feel a little ashamed of his cousin; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of Mrs. Hudson's servant, who came to tell them that his mistress waited for them at the door.

 

Mr. Moriarty attended them out, was introduced to Mrs. Hudson at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave.

 

His visit was duly paid. He came with a pretence at an apology from his wife, for not coming too; but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going anywhere. 

 

Mrs. Hudson, however, assured him directly that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on Mrs. Moriarty very soon, and bring the Holmes brothers to see her. 

 

James Moriarty’s manners to _them_ , though calm, were perfectly kind; to Mrs. Hudson, most attentively civil; and on Captain Watson's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to _him_.

 

After staying with them half an hour, Mr. Moriarty asked Mycroft to walk with him to Conduit Street, and introduce him to Sir Michael and Lady Stamford. The weather was remarkably fine, and Mycroft readily consented. 

 

As soon as they were out of the house, Mr. Moriarty’s enquiries began. "Who is Captain Watson? Is he a man of fortune?"

 

"Yes; he has very good property in Dorsetshire."

 

"I am glad of it. He seems a most gentlemanlike man; and I think, Mycroft, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life."

 

"Me! What do you mean?"

 

"He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune?"

 

"I believe about two thousand a year."

 

"Two thousand a year…” and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "Mycroft, I wish with all my heart it were _twice_ as much, for your sake."

 

“Indeed, I believe you," replied Mycroft. "But I am very sure that Captain Watson has not the smallest wish of marrying _me_."

 

"You are mistaken, Mycroft; you are very much mistaken. A very little trouble on your side will secure him. Perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it. But some of those little attentions and encouragements which young men can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself. And there can be no reason why you should not try for him. It is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side — in short, you know, as to an attachment of _that_ kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable — you have too much sense not to see all that. 

 

“Captain Watson must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family. It is a match that must give universal satisfaction. In short, it is a kind of thing that" — lowering his voice to an important whisper — "will be exceedingly welcome to _all parties_." 

 

Recollecting himself, however, he added, "That is, I mean to say — your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; Irene particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, I assure you. And her mother too, Mrs. Lestrade, a very good-natured woman, I am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day."

 

Mycroft would not vouchsafe any answer.

 

"It would be something remarkable, now," Mr. Moriarty continued, "something droll, if Irene should have a brother and I a cousin settling at the same time. And yet it is not very unlikely."

 

"Is Mr. Greg Lestrade," said Mycroft, with resolution, "going to be married?"

 

"It is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation. He has a most excellent mother. Mrs. Lestrade, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes place. The lady is the Honorable Miss Moran, only daughter of the late Lord Moran, with thirty thousand pounds. A very desirable connection on both sides, and I have not a doubt of its taking place in time. 

 

“A thousand a year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over forever; but Mrs. Lestrade has a noble spirit. To give you another instance of her liberality: The other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plentiful with us just now, she put bank-notes into Irene's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds. And extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here."

 

Mr. Moriarty paused for Mycroft’s assent and compassion; and he forced himself to say,

 

"Your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable; but your income is a large one."

 

"Not so large, I dare say, as many people suppose. I do not mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and I hope will in time be better. The enclosure of Musgrave Common, now carrying on, is a most serious drain. And then I have made a little purchase within this half year; East Kingham Farm, you must remember the place, where old Gibson used to live. The land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that I felt it my duty to buy it. I could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands. A man must pay for his convenience; and it _has_ cost me a vast deal of money."

 

"More than you think it really and intrinsically worth?”

 

"Why, I hope not that. I might have sold it again, the next day, for more than I gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, I might have been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if I had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's hands, I must have sold out to very great loss."

 

Mycroft could only smile.

 

"Other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to Musgrave Hall. We have been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, etc. to supply the place of what was taken away by your mother. You may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable Mrs. Lestrade's kindness is."

 

"Certainly," said Mycroft. "And assisted by her liberality, I hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances."

 

"Another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; “but, however, there is still a great deal to be done.”

 

Having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of doing anything to help his cousins, Mr. Moriarty’s thoughts took a more cheerful turn, and he began to congratulate Mycroft on having such a friend as Mrs. Hudson.

 

"She seems a most valuable woman indeed. Her house, her style of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially advantageous. Her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be forgotten. She must have a great deal to leave."

 

"Nothing at all, I should rather suppose; for she has only her jointure, which will descend to her children."

 

"But it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income. Few people of common prudence will do that; and whatever she saves, she will be able to dispose of."

 

"And do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her daughters, than to us?"

 

"Her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore I cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther. Whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard. Nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises."

 

"But she raises none in those most concerned. Indeed, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far."

 

"Why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have little, have very little in their power. But, my dear Mycroft, what is the matter with Sherlock? He looks very unwell, has lost his colour, and has grown quite thin. Is he ill?"

 

"He is not well. He has had a nervous complaint for several weeks."

 

"I am sorry for that. At his time of life, anything of an illness destroys the bloom forever! His has been a very short one! He was as handsome a young man, last September, as I ever saw. I remember Irene used to say that he would marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of _you_ , but so it happened to strike her. 

 

“She will be mistaken, however. I question whether Sherlock, _now_ , will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a year, at the utmost, and I am very much deceived if _you_ do not do better. Dorsetshire! I know very little of Dorsetshire; but, my dear Mycroft, I shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and I think I can answer for your having Irene and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors."

 

Mycroft tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood of his marrying Captain Watson; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to Mr. Moriarty to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention. He had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his cousins himself, to be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from Captain Watson, or a legacy from Mrs. Hudson, was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect.

 

They were lucky enough to find Lady Stamford at home, and Sir Michael came in before their visit ended. Abundance of civilities passed on all sides. Sir Michael was ready to like anybody, and though Mr. Moriarty did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow, while Lady Stamford saw enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and James Moriarty went away delighted with both.

 

"I shall have a charming account to carry to Irene," said he, as he walked back with Mycroft. "Lady Stamford is really a most elegant woman! Such a woman as I am sure Irene will be glad to know. And Mrs. Hudson, too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as her daughter. I need not have any scruple even of visiting _her_ , which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very naturally; for we only knew that Mrs. Hudson was the widow of a man who had got all his money in a low way; and Irene and Mrs. Lestrade were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were such kind of women as Irene would like to associate with. But now I can carry her a most satisfactory account of both."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think of Mycroft's conversation with James Moriarty? If that wasn't bad enough, next week both he and Sherlock will have to suffer through an entire Dinner with the Moriartys.


	33. Dinner with the Moriartys

Irene Moriarty had so much confidence in her husband's judgment, that she waited the very next day both on Mrs. Hudson and her daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom his cousins were staying, by no means unworthy of her notice; and as for Lady Stamford, she found her one of the most charming women in the world!

 

Lady Stamford was equally pleased with Mrs. Moriarty. They sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general lack of warmth or generosity beyond their most immediate families.

 

The same manners, however, which recommended Mrs. Moriarty to the good opinion of Lady Stamford did not suit the fancy of Mrs. Hudson, and to _her_ Irene appeared nothing more than a proud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's cousins without any affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on Berkeley Street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.

 

Mycroft wanted very much to know, though he did not choose to ask, whether Greg was then in town; but nothing would have induced Irene voluntarily to mention his name before them, till able to tell Mycroft that his marriage with Miss Moran was resolved on, or till her husband's expectations on Captain Watson were answered; because she believed them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion. 

 

The intelligence, however, which Irene would not give, soon flowed from another quarter. Sally came very shortly to claim Mycroft's compassion on her being unable to see Greg, though he had arrived in town with Mr. and Mrs. Moriarty. He dared not come to Bartlett's Buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write.

 

Greg assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short time, by twice calling in Berkeley Street. Twice was his card found on the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements. Mycroft was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that he had missed him.

 

The Moriartys were so prodigiously delighted with the Stamfords, that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give them a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in Harley Street, where they had taken a very good house for three months. Their cousins and Mrs. Hudson were invited likewise, and James Moriarty was careful to secure Captain Watson, who, always glad to be where the Holmes brothers were, received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure. 

 

They were to meet Mrs. Lestrade; but Mycroft could not learn whether her sons were to be of the party. The expectation of seeing _her_ , however, was enough to make him interested in the engagement; for though he could now meet Greg's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though he could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of himself, his desire of being in company with Mrs. Lestrade, his curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever.

 

The interest with which Mycroft thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by his hearing that Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan were also to be at it.

 

So well had they recommended themselves to Lady Stamford, so agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though Sally was certainly not so elegant, and her cousin not even genteel, she was as ready as Sir Michael to ask them to spend a week or two in Conduit Street; and it happened to be particularly convenient to Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan, as soon as the Moriartys' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party took place.

 

Their claims to the notice of Irene Moriarty, as the nieces of the gentleman who for many years had had the tutelage of her brother, might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as Lady Stamford's guests they must be welcome; and Sally, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life, than she was on receiving Mrs. Moriarty's card.

 

On Mycroft its effect was very different. He began immediately to determine that Greg, who lived with his mother, must be asked, as his mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first time, after all that passed, in the company of Sally! — Mycroft hardly knew how he could bear it!

 

These apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on truth. They were relieved, however, not by his own recollection, but by the good will of Sally, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told him that Greg certainly would not be in Harley Street on Tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain still farther by persuading him that he was kept away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together.

 

The important Tuesday came that was to introduce them all to Greg’s formidable mother.

 

"Pity me, dear Mr. Holmes!" said Sally, as they walked up the stairs together — for the Stamfords arrived so directly after Mrs. Hudson, that they all followed the servant at the same time — "There is nobody here but you, that can feel for me. I declare I can hardly stand. Good gracious! In a moment I shall see the person that all my happiness depends on — that is to be my mother-in-law!” 

 

Mycroft could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of its being Miss Moran's mother-in-law, rather than her own, whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, he assured her, and with great sincerity, that he did pity her — to the utter amazement of Sally, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to Mycroft.

 

Mrs. Lestrade was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect. Her complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters of pride and ill nature. She was not a woman of many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not one fell to the share of Mr. Holmes, whom she eyed with the spirited determination of disliking him at all events.

 

Mycroft could not _now_ be made unhappy by this behaviour. A few months ago it would have hurt him exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Lestrade's power to distress him by it now — and the difference of her manners to Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble him more, only amused him. He could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person — for Sally was particularly distinguished — whom of all others, had they known as much as he did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while he himself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both. 

 

But while Mycroft smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, he could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all.

 

Sally was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and Molly wanted only to be teased about Dr. Sawyer to be perfectly happy.

 

The dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and everything bespoke the Mistress's inclination for show, and the Master's ability to support it. In spite of the improvements and additions which they were making to the Musgrave Hall estate, and in spite of its owner having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to imply. No poverty of any kind, except of conversation, appeared — but there, the deficiency was considerable. 

 

James Moriarty had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less. But there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable: Lack of sense — lack of elegance — lack of spirits — or lack of temper.

 

When they withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for one subject only engaged them till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of Jimmy Moriarty and Lady Stamford's second son, William, who were nearly of the same age. Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Jimmy only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and everybody had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked.

 

The parties stood thus:

 

The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely and disingenuously decided in favour of the other.

 

The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.

 

Sally, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between them; and Molly, with yet greater address, gave it, as fast as she could, in favour of each.

 

Mycroft, having once delivered his opinion on William's side, by which he offended Mrs. Lestrade and Irene still more, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and Sherlock, when called on for his, offended them all, by declaring that he had no opinion to give, as he had never thought about it.

 

Before his removing from Musgrave Hall, Mycroft had painted a very pretty pair of screens for Irene, which being now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens, catching the eye of James Moriarty as he cast about for some other topic of conversation, were officiously handed by him to Captain Watson for his admiration.

 

"These are done by my eldest cousin," said he; "and you, as a man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you have ever happened to see any of his performances before, but he is in general reckoned to draw extremely well."

 

The Captain, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have done anything painted by Mr. Holmes; and on the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Lestrade, not aware of their being Mycroft's work, particularly requested to look at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of Lady Stamford’s approbation, Irene presented them to her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by Mr. Holmes.

 

"Hum" — said Mrs. Lestrade — "very pretty," — and without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter.

 

Perhaps Irene thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude enough, for, colouring a little, she immediately said,

 

"They are very pretty, ma'am — aren't they?" 

 

But then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added, "Do you not think they are something in Miss Moran's style of painting, Ma'am? She _does_ paint most delightfully! How beautifully her last landscape is done!"

 

"Beautifully indeed! But _she_ does everything well."

 

Sherlock could not bear this. He was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Lestrade; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Mycroft's expense, though he had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked him immediately to say with warmth,

 

"This is admiration of a very particular kind! What is Miss Moran to us? Who knows, or who cares, for her? It is Mycroft of whom _we_ think and speak."

 

And so saying, he took the screens out of Irene’s hands, to admire them himself as they ought to be admired.

 

Mrs. Lestrade looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, " _Miss Moran_ is _Lord Moran's_ daughter."

 

Irene looked very angry too, and her husband was all indignation at his cousin's audacity. 

 

Mycroft was much more hurt by Sherlock's warmth than he had been by what produced it; but Captain Watson's eyes, as they were fixed on Sherlock, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a brother slighted in the smallest point.

 

Sherlock's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Lestrade's general behaviour to his brother seemed to him to foretell such difficulties and distresses to Mycroft as his own wounded heart taught him to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, he moved, after a moment, to his brother's chair, and said in a low, but eager, voice,

 

"Mycroft, don't mind them. Don't let them make you unhappy."

 

Sherlock could say no more; his spirits were quite overcome, and hiding his face on Mycroft's shoulder, he burst into tears. 

 

Everybody's attention was called, and almost everybody was concerned. Captain Watson rose up and went to them without knowing what he did. Mrs. Hudson, with a very intelligent "Ah! Poor dear," immediately gave him her salts; and Sir Michael felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Sally Donovan, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair.

 

In a few minutes, however, Sherlock was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though his spirits retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.

 

"Poor Sherlock!" said Mr. Moriarty to Captain Watson, in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention. "He has not such good health as his brother. He is very nervous. He has not Mycroft's constitution. And one must allow that there is something very trying to a young man who _has been_ handsome in the loss of his personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Sherlock _was_ remarkably good-looking a few months ago; quite as handsome as Mycroft. — Now you see it is all gone." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week, Mycroft and Sherlock will have some (Un)Welcome Visitors.
> 
> In the meantime, I have a couple of little tidbits to tide you over. I've added [There Was an Old Woman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17689139) to my [Mother Goose Ships Johnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/series/573346) series. Also, you might want to check out the first chapter of [The Case of the Clever Conundrum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17629559), which is already complete, but I'm posting it as three short chapters, since it contains a riddle that I want to give readers a chance to solve. Enjoy!


	34. (Un)Welcome Visitors

Mycroft's curiosity to see Mrs. Lestrade was satisfied. He had found in her everything that could tend to make a farther connection between the families undesirable. He had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her determined prejudice against himself, to comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and stood in the way of the marriage of Greg and himself, had Greg been otherwise free. He had seen almost enough to be thankful, for Greg’s sake, that one greater obstacle preserved him from suffering under any other of his mother's creation, preserved him from all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or, at least, if he did not bring himself quite to rejoice in Greg's being fettered to Sally, he determined, that had Sally been more amiable, he _ought_ to have rejoiced.

 

Mycroft wondered that Sally's spirits could be so very much elevated by the civility of Mrs. Lestrade — that her interest and her vanity should so very much blind her as to make the attention, which seemed only paid her because she was _not_ Mycroft, appear a compliment to herself — or to allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not only been declared by Sally's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Stamford set her down in Berkeley Street on the chance of seeing Mycroft alone, to tell him how happy she was.

 

The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Hawkins, soon after she arrived, carried Mrs. Hudson away.

 

"My dear friend," cried Sally, as soon as they were by themselves, "I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could anything be so flattering as Mrs. Lestrade's way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was! You know how I dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem to say she had quite taken a fancy to me. Now was not it so? You saw it all; and were not you quite struck with it?"

 

"She was certainly very civil to you."

 

"Civil! Did you see nothing but only civility? I saw a vast deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me! No pride, no hauteur, and your cousin and his wife just the same — all sweetness and affability!"

 

Mycroft wished to talk of something else, but Sally still pressed him to own that she had reason for her happiness; and Mycroft was obliged to go on. 

 

"Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said he, "nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you; but as that was not the case —"

 

"I guessed you would say so," replied Sally quickly. "But there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Lestrade should seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is everything. You shan't talk me out of my satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Lestrade is a charming woman, and so is your cousin’s wife. They are both delightful women, indeed! I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Moriarty was!"

 

To this Mycroft had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

 

"Are you ill, Mr. Holmes? You seem low — you don't speak. I’m sure you aren't well."

 

"I never was in better health."

 

"I am glad of it with all my heart; but really you do not look it. I should be sorry to have _you_ ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world! Heaven knows what I should have done without your friendship." 

 

Mycroft tried to make a civil answer, though doubting his own success. But it seemed to satisfy Sally, for she directly replied,

 

"Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to Greg's love, it is the greatest comfort I have. — Poor Greg! — But now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady Stamford is delighted with Mrs. Moriarty, so we shall be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Greg spends half his time with his sister. Besides, Lady Stamford and Mrs. Lestrade will visit now; and Mrs. Lestrade and Mrs. Moriarty were both so good to say, more than once, they should always be glad to see me. They are such charming women! I am sure if ever you tell your cousin or his wife what I think of them, you cannot speak too high."

 

But Mycroft would not give her any encouragement to hope that he _should_ tell the Moriartys anything at all on the matter. 

 

Sally continued, "I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Lestrade had taken a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had taken any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way — you know what I mean. If I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have given it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she _does_ dislike, I know it is most violent."

 

Mycroft was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Lestrade, and Greg's immediately walking in.

 

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each showed that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Greg seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them. They were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. 

 

It was not Sally's business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only _look_ her tenderness, and after slightly addressing Greg, said no more.

 

But Mycroft had more to do; and so anxious was he, for Greg’s sake and his own, to do it well, that he forced himself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. He would not allow the presence of Sally, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards himself, to deter him from telling Greg that he was happy to see him, and that he had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. He would not be frightened from paying Greg those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Sally, though he soon perceived them to be narrowly watching him.

 

Mycroft’s manners gave some reassurance to Greg, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the others in a proportion which the case rendered reasonable; for his heart had not the indifference of Sally's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Mycroft's.

 

Sally, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost everything that _was_ said, proceeded from Mycroft, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about his mother's health, their coming to town, etc. which Greg ought to have inquired about, but never did.

 

Mycroft’s exertions did not stop here; for he soon afterwards felt himself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Sherlock, to leave the others by themselves; and he really did it, and in the handsomest manner, for he loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before he went to his brother. 

 

When that was once done, however, Sherlock’s joy hurried him into the drawing-room immediately. His pleasure in seeing Greg was like every other of his feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. Sherlock met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a brother.

 

"Dear Greg!" he cried. "This is a moment of great happiness! This would almost make amends for everything!"

 

Greg tried to return his kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Sherlock was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Greg and sometimes at Mycroft, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Sally's unwelcome presence. 

 

Greg was the first to speak, and it was to notice Sherlock's altered looks, and express his fear of London not agreeing with him.

 

"Oh, don't think of me!" Sherlock replied with spirited earnestness, though his eyes were filled with tears as he spoke. "Don't think of _my_ health. Mycroft is well, you see. That must be enough for us both."

 

This remark was not calculated to make Greg or Mycroft more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Sally, who looked up at Sherlock with no very benign expression.

 

"Do you like London?" said Greg, willing to say anything that might introduce another subject.

 

"Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Greg, is some of the only comfort it has afforded.”

 

He paused — no one spoke.

 

"I think, Mycroft," Sherlock presently added, "we must employ Greg to take care of us in our return to Baker. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Greg will not be very unwilling to accept the charge."

 

Poor Greg muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Sherlock, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased himself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else.

 

"We spent such a day, Greg, in Harley Street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull! But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now."

 

And with this admirable discretion did he defer the assurance of his finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of his being particularly disgusted with Greg’s mother, till they were more in private.

 

"But why were you not there, Greg? Why did you not come?"

 

"I was engaged elsewhere."

 

"Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?"

 

"Perhaps," cried Sally, eager to take some revenge on Sherlock, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great."

 

Mycroft was very angry, but Sherlock seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for he calmly replied,

 

"Not so, indeed. For, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience only kept Greg from Harley Street. And I really believe he has the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure. He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of anybody I ever saw. Greg, it is so, and I will say it. What! Are you never to hear yourself praised! Then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my esteem, must submit to my open commendation."

 

The nature of Sherlock’s commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of his auditors, and was so very un-exhilarating to Greg, that he very soon got up to go away.

 

"Going so soon!" said Sherlock. "My dear Greg, this must not be."

 

And drawing him a little aside, Sherlock whispered his persuasion that Sally could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Sally, who would have outstayed him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away.

 

"What can bring her here so often?" said Sherlock, on her leaving them. "Could not she see that we wanted her gone! How teasing to Greg!"

 

"Why so? We were all his friends, and Sally has been the longest known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves."

 

Sherlock looked at him steadily, and said, "You know, Mycroft, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear. If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it. I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted."

 

He then left the room; and Mycroft dared not follow him to say more, for bound as he was by his promise of secrecy to Sally, he could give no information that would convince Sherlock; and painful as the consequences of his still continuing in an error might be, he was obliged to submit to it. All that he could hope, was that Greg would not often expose them to the distress of hearing Sherlock's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting — and this he had every reason to expect. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As if that wasn't enough, next week there will be An Overabundance of Visiting.
> 
> A very happy Valentine's Day to you all. ♥


	35. An Overabundance of Visiting

Within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world that the lady Janine Hawkins was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before.

This event, highly important to Mrs. Hudson's happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possible with Janine, she went thither every morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening.

Mycroft and Sherlock, therefore, at the particular request of the Stamfords, spent the whole of every day in Conduit Street. For their own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in Mrs. Hudson's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody. Their hours were therefore made over to Lady Stamford, Miss Hooper, and Miss Donovan, by the first and last of whom, at least, their company was as little valued as it was professedly sought. They had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on her ground, and sharing the kindness which she wanted to monopolize. 

Though nothing could be more polite than Lady Stamford's behaviour to Mycroft and Sherlock, she did not really like them at all. Because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical — perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but that did not signify. It was censure in common use, and easily given.

Their presence was a restraint both on her and on Sally. It checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other. Lady Stamford was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which Sally was proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering. 

Miss Hooper was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely. Would either of them only have given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between Sherlock and Mr. Trevor, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned. But this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of pity for his brother to Mycroft, and more than once dropped a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before Sherlock, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter. 

An effort even yet lighter might have made Molly their friend. Would they only have laughed at her about Doctor Sawyer! But so little were they, any more than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if Sir Michael dined away from home, she might spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself.

All these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected by Mrs. Hudson, that she thought it a delightful thing for them all to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night, on having escaped the company of an old woman such as herself for so long. She joined them sometimes at Sir Michael's, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing Janine's well-being to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation, as only Miss Hooper had curiosity enough to desire. 

One thing did disturb Mrs. Hudson; and of that she made her daily complaint. Mr. Hawkins maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world.

I come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell Mrs. Moriarty. It so happened that while Mycroft and Sherlock, with Mrs. Hudson, were first calling on her in Harley Street, another of her acquaintance had dropped in — a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her. But while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance. In the present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability, that on understanding Mycroft and Sherlock to be Mr. Moriartys' cousins, she immediately concluded them to be staying in Harley Street; and this misconstruction produced, within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them, as well as for their cousins, to a small musical party at her house. 

The consequence of this was that Mrs. Moriarty was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the Holmes brothers, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention. And who could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time? The power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be hers. But that was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of anything better from them.

Sherlock had now been brought, by degrees, so much into the habit of going out every day, that it had become a matter of indifference to him whether he went or not. He prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take him.

To his dress and appearance he had grown so perfectly indifferent as not to bestow half the consideration on it which it received from Miss Hooper in the first five minutes of their being together. Nothing escaped her minute observation and general curiosity; she saw everything, and asked everything; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of Sherlock's clothing; and was not without hopes of finding out, before they parted, how much his washing cost per week, and how much he had every year to spend upon himself. The impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment, which was considered by Sherlock as the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into the value and make of his shirt, the colour of his shoes, and the arrangement of his hair, he was almost sure of being told that upon her word he looked vastly smart, and she dared to say he would make a great many conquests.

With such encouragement as this, was he dismissed, on the present occasion, to his cousin's carriage; which he and Mycroft were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to Irene, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part that might provide justification for her ill-humour by inconveniencing either herself or her coachman.

The events of this evening were not very remarkable. The party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate friends, the best private performers in England.

As Mycroft was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, he made no scruple of turning his eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited him, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp and cello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room. In one of these excursive glances, he spied the very same young man who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at Gray's. He perceived this gentleman soon afterwards looking at himself, and speaking familiarly to his cousin; and had just determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards him, and James Moriarty introduced him as Anderson Lestrade.

Greg’s younger brother addressed Mycroft with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow which assured him, as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb he had heard him described to be by Sally. Happy had it been for Mycroft, if his regard for Greg had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations! For then his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun. 

But while Mycroft wondered at the difference of the two young men, he did not find that the emptiness or conceit of the one put him at all out of charity with the modesty and worth of the other. Why they were different, Anderson explained himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme gaucherie which he really believed kept Greg from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education; while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.

"Upon my soul," he added, "I believe it is nothing more; and so I often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it. 'My dear Madam,' I always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy. The evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing. Why would you be persuaded to place Greg under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life? If you had only sent him to Westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to Mr. Gregson's, all this would have been prevented.' This is the way in which I always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error."

Mycroft would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be his general estimation of the advantage of a public school, he could not think of Greg's abode in Mr. Gregson's family with any satisfaction.

"You reside in Devonshire, I think," was Anderson Lestrade’s next observation, "in a cottage near Dawlish."

Mycroft set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising to him that anybody could live in Devonshire, without living near Dawlish. He bestowed his hearty approbation, however, on their species of house.

"For my own part," said he, "I am excessively fond of a cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them. And I protest, if I had any money to spare, I should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short distance of London, where I might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy. I advise everybody who is going to build, to build a cottage. Some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake. If people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling."

Mycroft agreed to it all, for he did not think this statement deserved the compliment of rational opposition.

As James Moriarty had no more pleasure in music than his eldest cousin, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on anything else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home. The consideration of Mrs. Dennison's mistake, in supposing his cousins their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while Mrs. Hudson's engagements kept her from home. The expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which those most worth knowing would expect of them. 

Irene was startled at the proposal.

"I do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting Lady Stamford, for they spend every day with her; otherwise I should be exceedingly glad to do it. You know I am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shows. But they are Lady Stamford's visitors. How can I ask them away from her?"

Her husband did not see the force of her objection. They had already spent a week in this manner in Conduit Street, and Lady Stamford could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such near relations.

Irene paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,

"My love, I would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power. But I had just settled within myself to ask Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan to spend a few days with us. They are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and I think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by Greg. We can ask your cousins some other year, you know; but Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan may not be in town any more. I am sure you will like them; indeed, you do like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with Jimmy!"

Mr. Moriarty was convinced. He saw the necessity of inviting Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his cousins another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing Mycroft to town as Captain Watson's husband, and Sherlock as their visitor.

Irene, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to Sally and Molly, to request their company, for some days, in Harley Street, as soon as Lady Stamford could spare them. 

This was enough to make Sally really and reasonably happy. Mrs. Moriarty seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views! Such an opportunity of being with Greg and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings! It was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to Lady Stamford, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days' time.

When the note was shown to Mycroft, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave him, for the first time, some share in the expectations of Sally; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from something more than merely malice against himself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do everything that Sally wished. Her flattery had already subdued the pride of Lady Stamford, and made an entry into the close heart of Mrs. Moriarty; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater.

Miss Hooper and Miss Donovan removed to Harley Street, and all that reached Mycroft of their influence there strengthened his expectation of the event. Sir Michael, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking. Mrs. Moriarty had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called Sally by her given name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What will come of Sally and Molly's stay with Irene and James Moriarty? All will be revealed next week, when the Secret is Out!


	36. The Secret is Out!

Janine Hawkins was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, Mrs. Hudson returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found Mycroft and Sherlock very ready to resume their former share.

 

About the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in Berkeley Street, Mrs. Hudson, on returning from her ordinary visit to Janine, entered the drawing-room, where Mycroft was sitting by himself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared him to hear something wonderful; and giving him time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying,

 

"Lord! My dear Mr. Holmes! Have you heard the news?"

 

"No, ma'am. What is it?"

 

"Something so strange! When I got to Mr. Hawkins', I found Janine quite in a fuss about the child. She was sure it was very ill, so Dr. Sawyer, was sent for; and luckily she happened to just come in from Harley Street, so she stepped over directly. She looked at the child, and said it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then Janine was easy. 

 

“Just as the doctor was going away again, it came into my head to ask her if there was any news. So upon that, she smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last she said in a whisper, 'For fear any unpleasant report should reach the young gentlemen under your care as to the indisposition of their cousin’s wife, I think it advisable to say that I believe there is no great reason for alarm; I hope Mrs. Moriarty will do very well.'"

 

"What! Is Irene ill?"

 

"That is exactly what I said, my dear. 'Lord!' says I. “Is Mrs. Moriarty ill?' 

 

“So then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all I can learn, seems to be this: Mr. Greg Lestrade, the very young man I used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out, I am monstrous glad there was never anything in it), Mr. Greg Lestrade, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin Sally! And not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except Molly!

 

“Could you have believed such a thing possible? There is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it! _That_ is strange! I never happened to see them together, or I am sure I should have found it out directly. 

 

“Well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of Mrs. Lestrade, and neither she nor your cousin nor his wife suspected a word of the matter — till this very morning, poor Molly, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, popped it all out. 'Lord!' thinks she to herself. 'They are all so fond of Sally, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;' and so, away she went to Mrs. Moriarty, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come — for she had just been saying to your cousin, only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between Greg and some Lord's daughter or other, I forget who. 

 

“You may imagine what a blow it was to all Mrs. Moriarty’s vanity and pride. She fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your cousin's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room downstairs. So up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for Sally was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on. Poor soul! I pity _her_. And I must say, I think she was used very hardly; for Mrs. Moriarty scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit. 

 

“Molly, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your cousin, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do. Mrs. Moriarty declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and Molly, still down upon her knees, was forced to beg her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes. 

 

“Then Mrs. Moriarty fell into hysterics again, and Mr. Moriarty was so frightened that he would send for Dr. Sawyer, and Dr. Sawyer found the house in all this uproar. The carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as she came off; poor Sally in such a condition, she says, she could hardly walk; and Molly, she was almost as bad. 

 

“I declare, I have no patience with Mrs. Moriarty; and I hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her. Lord! What a state poor Greg will be in when he hears of it! To have his love used so scornfully! For they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may be. I should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion! 

 

“Dr. Sawyer thinks just the same. She and I had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that she has gone back again to Harley Street, that she may be within call when Mrs. Lestrade is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your cousin was sure _she_ would be in hysterics too; and so she may be, for what I care. I have no pity for either of them. 

 

“I have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and greatness. There is no reason on earth why Greg and Sally should not marry; for I am sure Mrs. Lestrade may afford to do very well by her son, and though Sally has next to nothing herself, she knows better than anybody how to make the most of everything; I dare say, if Mrs. Lestrade would only allow him five hundred a year, she would make as good an appearance with it as anybody else would with eight."

 

Here Mrs. Hudson ceased, and as Mycroft had had time enough to collect his thoughts, he was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce. Happy to find that he was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that Mrs. Hudson (as he had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine him at all attached to Greg; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of Sherlock, he felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give his judgment, as he believed, with impartiality, on the conduct of everyone concerned in it.

 

Mycroft could hardly determine what his own expectation of this event really was; though he earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Greg and Sally. What Mrs. Lestrade would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, he was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Greg would conduct himself. For _him_ Mycroft felt much compassion; for Sally very little — and it cost him some pains to procure that little; for the rest of the party, he felt none at all.

 

As Mrs. Hudson could talk on no other subject, Mycroft soon saw the necessity of preparing Sherlock for its discussion. No time was to be lost in undeceiving him, in making him acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring him to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that he felt any uneasiness for his brother, or any resentment against Greg.

 

Mycroft's office was a painful one. He was going to remove what he really believed to be his brother's chief consolation — to give such particulars of Greg as he feared would ruin him forever in his good opinion — and to make Sherlock, by a resemblance in their situations, which to _his_ fancy would seem strong, feel all his own disappointment over again. But unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and Mycroft therefore hastened to perform it.

 

He was very far from wishing to dwell on his own feelings, or to represent himself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command he had practised since his first knowledge of Greg's engagement might suggest a hint of what was practicable to Sherlock. His narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief. _That_ belonged rather to the hearer, for Sherlock listened with horror, and cried excessively. Mycroft was to be the comforter of others in his own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of his own composure of mind, and a very earnest vindication of Greg from every charge but of imprudence, was readily offered.

 

But Sherlock for some time would give credit to neither. Greg seemed a second Victor Trevor; and acknowledging, as Mycroft did, that he _had_ loved him most sincerely, could his brother feel less than himself! As for Sally Donovan, Sherlock considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man, that he could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of Greg for her. He would not even admit it to have been possible; and Mycroft left him to be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince him, a better knowledge of humankind.

 

Mycroft’s first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed. Sherlock's feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe his distress, lessen his alarms, and combat his resentment. 

 

The first question on his side, which led to farther particulars, was, "How long has this been known to you, Mycroft? Has he written to you?"

 

"I have known it these four months. When Sally first came to Baker Manor last November, she told me in confidence of her engagement."

 

At these words, Sherlock's eyes expressed the astonishment which his lips could not utter. After a pause of wonder, he exclaimed — 

 

"Four months! Have you known of this four months?"

 

Mycroft confirmed it.

 

"What! While attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart? And I have reproached you for being happy!" 

 

"It was not fit that you should then know how much I was the reverse!"

 

"Four months!" cried Sherlock again. “But you’ve been so calm! How have you been supported?" 

 

"By feeling that I was doing my duty. My promise to Sally obliged me to be secret. I owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and I owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy."

 

Sherlock seemed much struck.

 

"I have very often wished to undeceive yourself and our mother," added Mycroft; "and once or twice I have attempted it. But without betraying my trust, I never could have convinced you."

 

"Four months! And yet you loved him!" 

 

"Yes. But I did not love only him; and while the comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt. Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion. I would not have you suffer on my account.

 

“I have many things to support me. I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther. I acquit Greg of essential misconduct. I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so. Sally does not lack sense, and that is the foundation on which everything good may be built. 

 

“And after all, Sherlock, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant — it is not fit — it is not possible that it should be so.  Greg will marry Sally; he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half the world; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to _her_." 

 

"If such is your way of thinking," said Sherlock, "if the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at. They are brought more within my comprehension."

 

"I understand you. You do not suppose that I have ever felt much. — For four months, Sherlock, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and our mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.

 

“It was told to me — it was in a manner forced on me — by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told to me, as I thought, with triumph. This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply interested; and it has not been only once. I have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and again. 

 

“I have known myself to be divided from Greg forever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection. Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me. I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages. 

 

“And all this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness. If you can think me capable of ever feeling — surely you may suppose that I have suffered _now_. The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion. They did not spring up of themselves. They did not occur to relieve my spirits at first. No, Sherlock. _Then_ , if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely — not even what I owed to my dearest friends — from openly showing that I was _very_ unhappy."

 

Sherlock was quite subdued. 

 

"Oh! Mycroft," he cried, "you have made me hate myself forever. How barbarous have I been to you! You, who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me! Is this my gratitude? Is this the only return I can make you? Because your merit cries out upon myself, I have been trying to do it away."

 

In such a frame of mind as Sherlock was now in, Mycroft had no difficulty in obtaining from him whatever promise he required; and at his request, Sherlock engaged never to speak of the affair to anyone with the least appearance of bitterness; to meet Sally without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her; and even to see Greg himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of his usual cordiality. These were great concessions — but where Sherlock felt that he had injured, no reparation could be too much for him to make.

 

He performed his promise of being discreet, to admiration. He attended to all that Mrs. Hudson had to say upon the subject with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, "Yes, ma'am." He listened to her praise of Sally with only moving from one chair to another, and when Mrs. Hudson talked of Greg's affection, it cost him only a spasm in his throat. 

 

Such advances towards heroism in his brother, made Mycroft feel equal to anything himself.

 

The next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their cousin, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife.

 

"You have heard, I suppose," said James Moriarty, with great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday."

 

They all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.

 

“My wife," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully. Mrs. Lestrade, too. In short, it has been a scene of such complicated distress — but I will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome. 

 

“Poor Irene! She was in hysterics all yesterday. But I would not alarm you too much. Dr. Sawyer says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to anything. She has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel! She says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived! Meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shown, so much confidence had been placed! 

 

“It was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and Sherlock to be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter. And now to be so rewarded! 'I wish, with all my heart,' says poor Irene in her affectionate way, 'that we had asked your cousins instead of them.'"

 

Here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.

 

"What poor Mrs. Lestrade suffered, when first Irene broke it to her, is not to be described. While she, with the truest affection, had been planning a most eligible connection for her son, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person? Such a suspicion could never have entered her head! If she suspected any prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in _that_ quarter. _'There_ , to be sure,' said she, 'I might have thought myself safe.' She was quite in an agony. 

 

“We consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for Greg. He came. But I am sorry to relate what ensued. All that Mrs. Lestrade could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and Irene's entreaties, was of no avail. Duty, affection, everything was disregarded. I never thought Greg so stubborn, so unfeeling before. His mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying Miss Moran; told him she would settle on him the Norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match. His own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."

 

Here Sherlock, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped his hands together, and cried, "Gracious God! Can this be possible?”

 

"Well may you wonder, Sherlock," replied his cousin, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these. Your exclamation is very natural."

 

Sherlock was going to retort, but he remembered his promises, and forbore.

 

"All this, however," Mr. Moriarty continued, "was urged in vain. Greg said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner. Nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement. He would stand to it, cost him what it might."

 

"Then," cried Mrs. Hudson with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent, "he has acted like an honest man! I beg your pardon, Mr. Moriarty, but if he had done otherwise, I should have thought him a rascal. I have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for Sally Donovan is my cousin, and I believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband."

 

James Moriarty was greatly astonished; but he never wished to offend anybody of good fortune. He therefore replied, without any resentment,

 

"I would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam. Miss Sally Donovan is, I dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible. And to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as Mrs. Lestrade, is perhaps altogether a little extraordinary. In short, I do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, Mrs. Hudson. We all wish her extremely happy; and Mrs. Lestrade's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt. It has been dignified and liberal. Greg has drawn his own lot, and I fear it will be a bad one."

 

Sherlock sighed out his similar apprehension; and Mycroft's heart wrung for the feelings of Greg, who was braving his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward him.

 

"Well, sir," said Mrs. Hudson, "and how did it end?"

 

"I am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture. Greg is dismissed forever from his mother's notice. He left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, I do not know; for _we,_ of course, can make no inquiry."

 

"Poor young man! And what is to become of him?"

 

"What, indeed, ma'am! It is a melancholy consideration. Born to the prospect of such affluence! I cannot conceive a situation more deplorable. The interest of two thousand pounds — how can a man live on it? And when to that is added the recollection that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred _a year_ (for Miss Moran has thirty thousand pounds) I cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition. We must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him."

 

"Poor young man!" cried Mrs. Hudson again. "I am sure he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so I would tell him if I could see him. It is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns."

 

Mycroft's heart thanked her for such kindness towards Greg, though he could not forbear smiling at the form of it.

 

"If he would only have done as well by himself," said James Moriarty, "as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing. But as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him. And there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all: his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle the estate upon Anderson immediately, which might have been Greg's, on proper conditions. I left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business."

 

"Well!" said Mrs. Hudson. "That is _her_ revenge. Everybody has a way of their own. But I don't think mine would be to make one son independent, because another had plagued me."

 

Sherlock got up and walked about the room.

 

"Can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued James, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own? Poor Greg! I feel for him sincerely."

 

A few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to his cousins that he really believed there was no material danger in Irene's indisposition, and that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the others unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it regarded Mrs. Lestrade's conduct, the Moriartys', and Greg's.

 

Sherlock's indignation burst forth as soon as James quitted the room; and as his vehemence made reserve impossible in Mycroft, and unnecessary in Mrs. Hudson, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that the secret is out, what will happen? Find out next week, when we learn about The Fallout.


	37. The Fallout

Mrs. Hudson was very warm in her praise of Greg's conduct, but only Mycroft and Sherlock understood its true merit. _They_ only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune. Mycroft gloried in Greg’s integrity; and Sherlock forgave all his offences in compassion for his punishment. 

 

But though confidence between the brothers was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone. Mycroft avoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon his thoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of Sherlock, the belief of Greg's continued affection for himself which he rather wished to do away; and Sherlock's courage soon failed him, in trying to converse upon a topic which always left him more dissatisfied with himself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced between Mycroft's conduct and his own.

 

Sherlock felt all the force of that comparison; but not, as his brother had hoped, to urge him to exertion now; he felt it with all the pain of continual self-reproach, regretting most bitterly that he had never exerted himself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope of amendment. His heart was so much weakened that he still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited him more.

 

Nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in Harley Street, or Bartlett's Buildings. But though so much of the matter was known to them already, that Mrs. Hudson might have had enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual had prevented her going to them within that time.

 

The third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars was so fine, so beautiful a Sunday, as to draw many to Kensington Gardens, though it was only the second week in March. Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft were of the number; but Sherlock, who knew that the Milverton-Trevors were again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.

 

An intimate acquaintance of Mrs. Hudson joined them soon after they entered the Gardens, and Mycroft was not sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all Mrs. Hudson's conversation, he was himself left to quiet reflection. He saw nothing of the Milverton-Trevors, nothing of Greg, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by any chance, whether grave or gay, be interesting to him. But at last he found himself, with some surprise, accosted by Miss Hooper, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of Mrs. Hudson, left her own party for a short time, to join theirs. 

 

Mrs. Hudson immediately whispered to Mycroft, "Get it all out of her, my dear. She will tell you anything if you ask. You see I cannot leave Mrs. Clarke."

 

It was lucky, however, for Mrs. Hudson's curiosity and Mycroft's too, that Molly would tell anything _without_ being asked; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt.

 

"I am so glad to meet you,” said Miss Hooper, taking Mycroft familiarly by the arm, "for I wanted to see you of all things in the world." And then lowering her voice, "I suppose Mrs. Hudson has heard all about it. Is she angry?"

 

"Not at all, I believe, with you."

 

"That is a good thing. And Lady Stamford, is _she_ angry?"

 

"I cannot suppose it possible that she should be."

 

"I am monstrous glad of it. Good gracious! I have had such a time of it! I never saw Sally in such a rage in my life. She vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do anything else for me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever. Look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night. 

 

“There now, _you_ are going to laugh at me, too. But why should not I wear pink ribbons? I do not care if it _is_ Dr. Sawyer’s favourite colour. I am sure, for my part, I should never have known she _did_ like it better than any other colour, if she had not happened to say so. My cousins have been so plaguing me! I declare sometimes I do not know which way to look before them."

 

She had wandered away to a subject on which Mycroft had nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first.

 

"Well, but Mr. Holmes," (speaking triumphantly) "people may say what they choose about Mr. Lestrade's declaring he would not have Sally, for it is no such thing I can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad. Whatever Sally might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain."

 

"I never heard anything of the kind hinted at before, I assure you," said Mycroft.

 

"Oh, did not you? But it _was_ said, I know very well, and by more than one; for Miss Godby told Miss Sparks that nobody in their senses could expect Mr. Lestrade to give up a woman like Miss Moran, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for Sally Donovan who had nothing at all; and I had it from Miss Sparks myself. And besides that, my cousin Richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid Mr. Lestrade would be off. 

 

“When Greg did not come near us for three days, I could not tell what to think myself; and I believe in my heart Sally gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your cousin's Wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, and did not know what had become of him. Once Sally thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that. 

 

“However, this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for on Wednesday to Harley Street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he had promised himself to Sally, and he could not break his word. He had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had gone away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse, and ridden into the country, somewhere or other; and he had stayed about at an inn all Thursday and Friday, on purpose to get the better of it. 

 

“After thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of anything else; and if he was to go into orders as a clergyman, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how were they to live upon that? He could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him to shift for himself. 

 

“I heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be. And it was entirely for _her_ sake, and upon _her_ account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own. I will take my oath he never dropped a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry Miss Moran, or anything like it. But, to be sure, Sally would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little soever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind. 

 

“So then he talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living. And just then I could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me Mrs. Richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to Kensington Gardens; so I was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask Sally if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave Greg; so I just ran upstairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the Richardsons."

 

"I do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said Mycroft. "You were all in the same room together, were not you?"

 

"No, indeed, not us. Do you think people speak of love when anybody else is by? Oh, for shame! To be sure you must know better than that,” Molly said with a laugh. “No, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all I heard was only by listening at the door."

 

"What!" cried Mycroft. "Have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door? I am sorry I did not know it before; for I certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself. How could you behave so unfairly by your cousin?"

 

"Oh, la! There is nothing in _that_. I only stood at the door, and heard what I could. And I am sure Sally would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when Martha Sharpe and I had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said."

 

Mycroft tried to talk of something else; but Molly could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.

 

"Greg talks of going to Oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging in Pall Mall. He has got some business at Oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after that, as soon as he can light upon a Bishop, he will be ordained. I wonder what curacy he will get!”

 

Miss Hooper was going to continue on the same subject, but the approach of her own party interrupted her.

 

"Oh, la! Here come the Richardsons. I had a vast deal more to say to you, but I must not stay away from them any longer. I have not time to speak to Mrs. Hudson about it myself, but pray tell her I am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and Lady Stamford the same; and if anything should happen to take you and your brother away, and Mrs. Hudson should want company, I am sure we should be very glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes. I suppose Lady Stamford won't ask us any more this bout. Goodbye; I am sorry Master Sherlock was not here. Remember me kindly to him."

 

Such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her farewell compliments to Mrs. Hudson, before her company was claimed by Mrs. Richardson; and Mycroft was left in possession of knowledge which might feed his powers of reflection some time, though he had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in his own mind. Greg's marriage with Sally was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as he had concluded it would be. Everything depended, exactly after his expectation, on Greg’s getting that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.

 

As soon as they returned to the carriage, Mrs. Hudson was eager for information; but as Mycroft wished to spread as little as possible such intelligence as had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, he confined himself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as he felt assured that Sally, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known. The continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all his communication; and this produced from Mrs. Hudson the following natural remark:

 

"Wait for his having a living! Aye, we all know how _that_ will end: they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter Mr. Donovan and Mr. Gregson can give her. Then they will have a child every year! And Lord help them! How poor they will be! I must see what I can give them towards furnishing their house. Two maids and two men, indeed! No, no, they must get a stout girl of all works."

 

The next morning brought Mycroft a letter by the two-penny post from Sally herself. It was as follows:

 

_I hope my dear Mr. Holmes will excuse the liberty I take of writing to him; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and my dear Greg, after all the troubles we have gone through lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always be in one another's love. We have had great trials, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Greg too, who I have told of it._

 

_I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs. Hudson, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon. He would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted forever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could have my affections._

 

_Our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best. He will be ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend him to anybody that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Hudson too, I trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir Michael, or Mr. Hawkins, or any friend that may be able to assist us._

 

_Poor Molly was much to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say nothing. I hope Mrs. Hudson won't think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her._

 

_My paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir Michael, and Lady Stamford, and the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to Master Sherlock,_

 

_Sally Donovan_

 

As soon as Mycroft had finished it, he performed what he concluded to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of Mrs. Hudson, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise.

 

"How prettily she writes! Aye, that was quite proper to let him be off if he would. That was just like Sally. Poor soul! I wish I _could_ get him a living, with all my heart. She calls me dear Mrs. Hudson, you see. She is a good-hearted girl as ever lived. Yes, yes, I will go and see her, sure enough. How attentive she is, to think of everybody! Thank you, my dear, for showing it to me. It is as pretty a letter as ever I saw, and does Sally's head and heart great credit."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next week: A Misunderstood Conversation.
> 
> Last week I had the good fortune to score four winning bids (plus a bonus second chance bid) in the Fandom Trumps Hate charity auction. Three are for podfics - from iamjohnlocked4life, BiP, and BrickGrass - which I'm very excited about. If you haven't yet listened to the podfic I won for FTH last year, please check it out. Lockedinjohnlock did a marvelous reading of the first story in this Sherlock Meets Jane Austen series, [Southanger Abbey](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058439).
> 
> The fic I won (and, if I'm lucky, also the second chance fic) will be another alternative ending for Our Divinest Senses. While you're waiting for Iwantthatcoat (and perhaps also elwinglyre) to write and post, you might want to read (or reread) the entire [Divinest Senses](https://archiveofourown.org/series/534016) series, including the brilliant alternative endings by PatPrecieux, DaisyFairy, and alexxphoenix42.
> 
> If any of you lovely readers are interested in writing your own alternative endings - or in podficcing any of my stories - I would be delighted. :)


	38. A Misunderstood Conversation

The Holmes brothers had now been rather more than two months in town, and Sherlock's impatience to be gone increased every day. He sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could give him ease, Baker Cottage must do it. Mycroft was hardly less anxious than himself for their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected immediately, as that he was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, which Sherlock could not be brought to acknowledge. He began, however, seriously to turn his thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to Mycroft altogether much more eligible than any other. 

 

The Hawkins family were to remove to Cleveland about the end of March, for the Easter holidays; and Mrs. Hudson, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from Janine to go with them. This would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of Mycroft; but it was enforced with so much real politeness by Mr. Hawkins himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his manners towards them since his brother had been known to be unhappy, induced Mycroft to accept it with pleasure.

 

When he told Sherlock what he had done, however, his first reply was not very auspicious.

 

"Cleveland!" he cried, with great agitation. "No, I cannot go to Cleveland." 

 

"You forget," said Mycroft gently, "that its situation is not...that it is not in the neighbourhood of..."

 

"But it is in Somersetshire. — I cannot go into Somersetshire. — There, where I looked forward to going… No, Mycroft, you cannot expect me to go there."

 

Mycroft would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such feelings; he only endeavoured to counteract them by working on others. He represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the time of returning to that dear mother, whom Sherlock so much wished to see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay. From Cleveland, which was within a few miles of Bristol, the distance to Baker was not beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their staying above a week at Cleveland, they might now be at home in little more than three weeks' time. As Sherlock's affection for their mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty over the imaginary evils he had stated.

 

Mrs. Hudson was so far from being weary of her guests, that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her again to London from Cleveland. Mycroft was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter his design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, everything relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be; and Sherlock found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that were yet to divide him from Baker.

 

"Ah! Captain Watson, I do not know what you and I shall do without our young friends,” was Mrs. Hudson's address to him when he first called on her, after their leaving her was settled, "for they are quite resolved upon going home from Cleveland — and how forlorn we shall be, when I come back! Lord! We shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats."

 

Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself an escape from it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object gained; for, on Mycroft's moving to the window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which he was going to copy for his friend, Captain Watson followed him to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with him there for several minutes. The effect of his discourse on the young gentleman, too, could not escape her observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even changed her seat, on purpose that she might NOT hear, to one close by the piano forte on which Sherlock was playing, she could not keep herself from seeing that Mycroft changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too intent on what Captain Watson said to pursue his employment. 

 

Still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of Sherlock's turning from one piece to another, some words of the Captain's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologising for the badness of his house. This set the matter beyond a doubt. Mrs. Hudson wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so, as his house and estate were exceedingly grand; but supposed it to be the proper etiquette. What Mycroft said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of his lips that he did not think _that_ any material objection; and Mrs. Hudson commended him in her heart for being so honest. 

 

They then talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in Sherlock's performance brought her these words in the Captain's calm voice,  

 

"I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."

 

Astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to cry out, "Lord! What should hinder it?" — but checking her desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation:

 

"This is very strange! For sure he need not wait to be older."

 

This delay on the Captain's side, however, did not seem to offend or mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, Mrs. Hudson very plainly heard Mycroft say, and with a voice which showed him to feel what he said,

 

"I shall always think myself very much obliged to you."

 

Mrs. Hudson was delighted with his gratitude, and only wondered that after hearing such a sentence, the Captain should be able to take leave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without making any reply! She had not thought her old friend could have made so indifferent a suitor.

 

What had really passed between them was to this effect:

 

"I have heard," said Captain Watson, with great compassion, "of the injustice your friend Mr. Lestrade has suffered from his family; for if I understand the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman. Have I been rightly informed? Is it so?"

 

Mycroft told him that it was.

 

"The cruelty, the impolitic cruelty," he replied, with great feeling, "of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is terrible. Mrs. Lestrade does not know what she may be doing — what she may drive her son to. I have seen Mr. Lestrade two or three times in Harley Street, and am much pleased with him. He is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but I have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, I wish it still more. 

 

“I understand that he intends to take orders. Will you be so good as to tell him that the living of Delaford, now just vacant, as I am informed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance — but _that_ , perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; I only wish it were more valuable. It is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, I believe, did not make more than 200 pounds per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, I fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income. Such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting it to him will be very great. Pray assure him of it."

 

Mycroft's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had the Captain been really making him an offer of his hand. The preferment, which only two days before he had considered as hopeless for Greg, was already provided to enable him to marry — and _he_ , of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it! His emotion was such as Mrs. Hudson had attributed to a very different cause; but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, his esteem for the general benevolence, and his gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted Captain Watson to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed. 

 

Mycroft thanked him for it with all his heart, spoke of Greg's principles and disposition with that praise which he knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another. But at the same time, he could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself. It was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give Greg the pain of receiving an obligation from _him_ , Mycroft would have been very glad to be spared himself; but Captain Watson, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through his means, that Mycroft would not on any account make farther opposition. 

 

Greg, he believed, was still in town, and fortunately Mycroft had heard his address from Miss Hooper. He could undertake therefore to communicate the offer in the course of the day. 

 

After this had been settled, Captain Watson began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and _then_ it was that he mentioned, with regret, that the clergy house was small and indifferent — an evil which Mycroft, as Mrs. Hudson had supposed him to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size.

 

"The smallness of the house," said he, "I cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income."

 

By which Captain Watson was surprised to find that Mycroft was considering Mr. Lestrade's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that Delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on — and he said so.

 

"This little rectory can do no more than make Mr. Lestrade comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry. I am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this. If, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, I must think very differently of him from what I now do, if I am not as ready to be useful to him then as I sincerely wish I could be at present. What I am now doing, indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness. His marriage must still be a distant good; at least, I am afraid it cannot take place very soon."

 

Such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of Mrs. Hudson; but after this narration of what really passed between Captain Watson and Mycroft, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson certainly has the wrong end of that stick, doesn't she? Will she ever figure out what's really going on? Find out next week, when we'll have both Confusion and Elucidation.


	39. Confusion and Elucidation

"Well, Mr. Holmes," said Mrs. Hudson, sagaciously smiling, as soon as their visitor had withdrawn, "I do not ask you what the Captain has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, I _tried_ to keep out of hearing, I could not help catching enough to understand his business. And I assure you I never was better pleased in my life, and I wish you joy of it with all my heart."

 

"Thank you, ma'am," said Mycroft. "It is a matter of great joy to me; and I feel the goodness of Captain Watson most sensibly. There are not many men who would act as he has done. Few people who have so compassionate a heart! I never was more astonished in my life."

 

"Lord! My dear, you are very modest. I’m not the least astonished at it in the world, for I have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen."

 

"You judged from your knowledge of the Captain's general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur."

 

"Opportunity!" repeated Mrs. Hudson — "Oh! As to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity. Well, my dear, I wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, I think I shall soon know where to look for them."

 

"You mean to go to Delaford after them, I suppose," said Mycroft, with a faint smile.

 

"Aye, my dear, that I do, indeed. And as to the house being a bad one, I do not know what the Captain would be at, for it is as good a one as ever I saw."

 

"He spoke of its being out of repair."

 

"Well, and whose fault is that? Why doesn't he repair it? Who should do it but himself?"

 

They were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and Mrs. Hudson, immediately preparing to go, said, 

 

"Well, my dear, I must be gone before I have had half my talk out. But, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone. I do not ask you to go with me, for I dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your brother all about it."

 

Sherlock had left the room before the conversation began.

 

"Certainly, ma'am, I shall tell Sherlock of it; but I shall not mention it at present to anybody else."

 

"Oh! Very well," said Mrs. Hudson, rather disappointed. "Then you would not have me tell it to Sally, for I think of going as far as Holborn today."

 

"No, ma'am, not even Sally, if you please. One day's delay will not be very material; and till I have written to Mr. Lestrade, I think it ought not to be mentioned to anybody else. I shall do _that_ directly. It is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination."

 

This speech at first puzzled Mrs. Hudson exceedingly. Why Mr. Lestrade was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend. A few moments' reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed — 

 

"Oh, ho! — I understand you. Mr. Lestrade is to perform the ceremony. Well, so much the better for him. Ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and I am very glad to find things are so forward between you. But, my dear, is not this rather out of character? Should not the Captain write himself? I’m sure he is the proper person."

 

Mycroft did not quite understand the beginning of Mrs. Hudson's speech; neither did he think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion.

 

"Captain Watson is so delicate a man, that he rather wished anyone to announce his intentions to Mr. Lestrade than himself."

 

"And so _you_ are forced to do it. Well _that_ is an odd kind of delicacy! However, I will not disturb you — ” (seeing Mycroft preparing to write) “you know your own concerns best. So goodbye, my dear. I have not heard of anything to please me so well since Janine was brought to bed."

 

"Certainly, ma'am," replied Mycroft to her retreating back, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone than to be master of the subject.

 

How he should begin — how he should express himself in his note to Greg, was now all Mycroft’s concern. The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but he equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over his paper, with the pen in his hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Greg himself.

 

Greg had met Mrs. Hudson at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Mr. Holmes was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business.

 

Mycroft had just been congratulating himself, in the midst of his perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express himself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when his visitor entered, to force him upon this greatest exertion of all. His astonishment and confusion were very great on Greg’s so sudden appearance. Mycroft had not seen him since before his engagement became public, and therefore not since Greg’s knowing him to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what he had been thinking of, and what he had to tell him, made Mycroft feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes. 

 

Greg, too, was much distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment. Whether he had asked Mycroft’s pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say anything, after taking a chair.

 

"Mrs. Hudson told me," said Greg, "that you wished to speak with me, at least I understood her so — or I certainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your brother; especially as it will most likely be some time — it is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again. I go to Oxford tomorrow."

 

"You would not have gone, however," said Mycroft, recovering himself, and determined to get over what he so much dreaded as soon as possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person. Mrs. Hudson was quite right in what she said. I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating by paper. 

 

“I am charged with a most agreeable office,” Mycroft continued, breathing rather faster than usual as he spoke. “Captain Watson, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the living of Delaford, now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable. Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living — it is about two hundred a year — were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to — as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself — such, in short, as might establish all your views of happiness."

 

What Greg felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that anyone else should say for him. He _looked_ all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words,

 

"Captain Watson!"

 

"Yes," continued Mycroft, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, "Captain Watson means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed — for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you — a concern which I am sure Sherlock, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion."

 

"Captain Watson give _me_ a living! Can it be possible?"

 

"The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship anywhere."

 

"No," replied Greg, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in _you_ ; for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all. — I feel it — I would express it if I could — but, as you well know, I am no orator."

 

"You are very much mistaken. I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Captain Watson's discernment of it. I have had no hand in it. I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift. As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps — indeed I know he _has_ , still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation."

 

Truth obliged Mycroft to acknowledge some small share in the action, but he was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactor of Greg, that he acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it. 

 

For a short time Greg sat deep in thought, after Mycroft had ceased to speak. At last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said, "Captain Watson seems a man of great worth and respectability. I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly. He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman."

 

"Indeed," replied Mycroft, "I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is quite close to the mansion-house) it is particularly important that he _should_ be all this."

 

Greg made no answer; but when Mycroft had turned away his head, gave him a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater.

 

"Captain Watson, I think, lodges in St. James Street," said Greg, soon afterwards, rising from his chair.

 

Mycroft told him the number of the house.

 

"I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give _you_ ; to assure him that he has made me a very — an exceedingly happy man."

 

Mycroft did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on Mycroft’s side of his unceasing good wishes for Greg’s happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on Greg’s, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it.

 

"When I see him again," said Mycroft to himself, as the door shut him out, "I shall see him the husband of Sally."

 

And with this anticipation, he sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Greg; and, of course, to reflect on his own with discontent.

 

When Mrs. Hudson came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as Mycroft appeared.

 

"Well, my dear," she cried, "I sent you up the young man. Did not I do right? And I suppose you had no great difficulty — you did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?"

 

"No, ma'am; _that_ was not very likely."

 

"Well, and how soon will he be ready? For it seems all to depend upon that."

 

"Really," said Mycroft, "I know so little of these kind of forms, that I can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but I suppose two or three months will complete his ordination."

 

"Two or three months!" cried Mrs. Hudson; "Lord! My dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the Captain wait two or three months! Lord bless me! I am sure it would put _me_ quite out of patience! And though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor Mr. Lestrade, I do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him. Surely somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already."

 

"My dear ma'am," said Mycroft, "what can you be thinking of? Why, Captain Watson's only object is to be of use to Mr. Lestrade."

 

"Lord bless you, my dear! Surely you do not mean to persuade me that the Captain only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to Mr. Lestrade for performing the ceremony!"

 

The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Hudson only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first.

 

"Aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely _may_ be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as I thought, for a manor house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and I think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds! — and to you, too, that had been used to live in Baker Cottage! — It seems quite ridiculous. But, my dear, we must touch up the Captain to do something to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before Sally goes to it."

 

"But Captain Watson does not seem to have any idea of the living's being enough to allow them to marry."

 

"The Captain is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less. Take my word for it, that, if I am alive, I shall be paying a visit at Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas; and I am sure I shan't go if Sally isn't there."

 

Mycroft, unhappily, was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for anything more. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How will the news of Greg's receipt of a living be received by his estranged relations? Find out next week, when Mycroft is Subjected to the Unpleasant Opinions of Anderson, Irene, and James Moriarty.
> 
> Meanwhile, if you're in the mood for a little belated (or extremely early) Christmas cheer, allow me to share a gift I received earlier this week: the angelic voice of HPswl_cumbercookie singing two decidedly un-angelic carols from my [Johnlock Comes A-Wassailing](https://archiveofourown.org/series/591307) series - [Oh, Come, John](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162971) and [Jingle Bell Cock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18163037).


	40. Mycroft is Subjected to the Unpleasant Opinions of Anderson, Irene, and James Moriarty

Greg, having carried his thanks to Captain Watson, proceeded with feigned happiness to Sally; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached Bartlett's Buildings, that she was able to assure Mrs. Hudson, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life.

 

Sally’s own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined Mrs. Hudson most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in Delaford Parsonage before Michaelmas. So far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give Mycroft that credit which Greg _would_ give him, that she spoke of his friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to him, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on Mr. Holmes' part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed him capable of doing anything in the world for those he really valued. 

 

As for Captain Watson, Sally was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and resolved to avail herself, at Delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.

 

It was now above a week since James Moriarty had called in Berkeley Street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, Mycroft began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit. This was an obligation, however, which not only opposed his own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from his companions. Sherlock, not contented with absolutely refusing to go himself, was very urgent to prevent his brother's going at all; and Mrs. Hudson, though her carriage was always at Mycroft's service, so very much disliked Irene Moriarty, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking Greg's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again. The consequence was, that Mycroft set out by himself to pay a visit for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike.

 

The servant who answered the door claimed Mrs. Moriarty was not within; but before the carriage could turn from the house, her husband accidentally came out. He expressed great pleasure in meeting Mycroft, told him that he had been just going to call in Berkeley Street, and, assuring him that Irene would be very glad to see him, invited him to come in.

 

They walked upstairs in to the drawing-room. Nobody was there.

 

"Irene is in her own room, I suppose," said James. "I will go to her presently, for I am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to seeing _you_. Very far from it, indeed. _Now_ especially there cannot be — but however, you and Sherlock were always great favourites. Why would not Sherlock come?" 

 

Mycroft made what excuse he could for his brother.

 

"I am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for I have a good deal to say to you. This living of Captain Watson's — can it be true? Has he really given it to Greg? I heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it."

 

"It is perfectly true. Captain Watson has given the living of Delaford to Greg."

 

"Really! Well, this is very astonishing! No relationship — no connection between them! And now that livings fetch such a price! What was the value of this?"

 

"About two hundred a year."

 

"Very well — and for the next presentation to a living of that value he might have got, I dare say, fourteen hundred pounds. A man of Captain Watson's sense! I wonder he should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern! Well, I am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human character. I suppose, however — on recollection — that the case may probably be this: Greg is only to hold the living till the person to whom the Captain has really sold the presentation is old enough to take it. Aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it."

 

Mycroft contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that he had himself been employed in conveying the offer from Captain Watson to Greg, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged Mr. Moriarty to submit to his authority.

 

"It is truly astonishing!" he cried, after hearing what Mycroft said. "What could be the Captain's motive?"

 

"A very simple one — to be of use to Mr. Lestrade."

 

"Well, well; whatever Captain Watson may be, Greg is a very lucky man. You will not mention the matter to Irene, however, for though I have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well, she will not like to hear it much talked of."

 

Mycroft had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that he thought Irene might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished.

 

"Mrs. Lestrade," added Mr. Moriarty, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and I believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be. When the marriage takes place, I fear she must hear of it all."

 

"But why should such precaution be used? Though it is not to be supposed that Mrs. Lestrade can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon — for _that_ must be quite out of the question — yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all? She has done with her son, she cast him off forever, and has made everyone over whom she had any influence cast him off likewise. Surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account — she cannot be interested in anything that befalls him. She would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!"

 

"Ah! Mycroft," said James, "your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature. When Greg's unhappy match takes place, depend upon it, his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and, therefore, every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible. Mrs. Lestrade can never forget that Greg is her son."

 

"You surprise me; I should think it must nearly have escaped her memory by this time."

 

"You wrong her exceedingly. Mrs. Lestrade is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world."

 

Mycroft was silent.

 

"We think _now_ ," said Mr. Moriarty, after a short pause, "of Anderson's marrying Miss Moran."

 

Mycroft, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of his cousin's tone, calmly replied,

 

"The lady, I suppose, has no choice in the affair."

 

"Choice! How do you mean?"

 

"I only mean that I suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be the same to Miss Moran whether she marry Greg or Anderson."

 

"Certainly, there can be no difference; for Anderson will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son; and as to anything else, they are both very agreeable young men: I do not know that one is superior to the other."

 

Mycroft said no more, and James was also for a short time silent. His reflections ended thus:

 

"Of _one_ thing, my dear cousin," kindly taking Mycroft’s hand, and speaking in an awful whisper, "I may assure you; and I _will_ do it, because I know it must gratify you. I have good reason to think — indeed I have it from the best authority, or I should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say anything about it — but I have it from the very best authority — not that I ever precisely heard Mrs. Lestrade say it herself — but her daughter _did_ , and I have it from her — that in short, whatever objections there might be against a certain — a certain connection — you understand me — it would have been far preferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that _this_ does. I was exceedingly pleased to hear that Mrs. Lestrade considered it in that light — a very gratifying circumstance, you know, to us all.

 

“'It would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two,' and she would be glad to compound _now_ for nothing worse. But, however, all that is quite out of the question — not to be thought of or mentioned — as to any attachment you know — it never could be — all that is gone by. But I thought I would just tell you of this, because I knew how much it must please you. Not that you have any reason to regret, my dear Mycroft. There is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well — quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered. Has Captain Watson been with you lately?"

 

Mycroft had heard enough, if not to gratify his vanity, and raise his self-importance, at least to agitate his nerves and fill his mind; and he was therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply himself, and from the danger of hearing anything more from his cousin, by the entrance of Mr. Anderson Lestrade. 

 

After a few moments' chat, James Moriarty, recollecting that Irene was yet uninformed of his cousin's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and Mycroft was left to improve his acquaintance with Anderson, who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming Mycroft’s most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.

 

They had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before Anderson began to speak of Greg; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject. Mycroft repeated the particulars of it, as he had given them to James; and their effect on Anderson, though very different, was not less striking than it had been on _him_. He laughed most immoderately. The idea of Greg's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure; and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of Greg reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between John Smith and Mary Brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.

 

Mycroft, while he waited in silence and immovable gravity the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain his eyes from being fixed on Anderson with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited. It was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved his own feelings, and gave no intelligence to its object. 

 

Anderson was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of Mycroft’s, but by his own sensibility.

 

"We may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the moment, "but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business. Poor Greg! He is ruined forever. I am extremely sorry for it — for I know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow, perhaps, as any in the world. You must not judge of him, Mr. Holmes, from _your_ slight acquaintance. 

 

“Poor Greg! His manners are certainly not the happiest in nature. But we are not all born, you know, with the same powers. Poor fellow! But upon my soul, I believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and I declare and protest to you I never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth. I could not believe it. 

 

“My mother was the first person who told me of it; and I, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, 'My dear madam, I do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, I must say, that if Greg does marry this young woman, I never will see him again.' That was what I said immediately. I was most uncommonly shocked, indeed! 

 

“Poor Greg! He has done for himself completely — shut himself out forever from all decent society! But, as I directly said to my mother, I am not in the least surprised at it. From his style of education, it was always to be expected. My poor mother was half frantic."

 

"Have you ever seen Miss Donovan?"

 

"Yes; once, while she was staying in this house, I happened to drop in for ten minutes; and I saw quite enough of her. The merest awkward country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty. I remember her perfectly. Just the kind of girl I should suppose likely to captivate poor Greg. 

 

“I offered immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late then, I found, to do anything, for unluckily, I was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to interfere. But had I been informed of it a few hours earlier — I think it is most probable — that something might have been hit on. I certainly should have represented it to Greg in a very strong light. 

 

“'My dear fellow,' I should have said, 'consider what you are doing. You are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.' I cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found. But now it is all too late. He must be starved, you know — that is certain — absolutely starved."

 

Anderson Lestrade had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of Irene Moriarty put an end to the subject. But though _she_ never spoke of it out of her own family, Mycroft could see its influence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to himself. She even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that Mycroft and his brother were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of them — an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish everything that was most affectionate and graceful. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will things get better once the Holmes brothers leave London? Well, they'll no longer be subjected to Irene, James, or Anderson, but other trials await them. Next week, Sherlock Falls Ill.
> 
> If you're curious, there are nine or ten more chapters ahead, so this fic should be wrapping up some time in June. Then - Muse willing - I hope to resume [Sherlock of Green Gables](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121577).


	41. Sherlock Falls Ill

One other short call in Harley Street, in which Mycroft received James Moriarty's congratulations on their travelling so far towards Baker without any expense, and on Captain Watson's being to follow them to Cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the cousins in town; and a faint invitation from Irene, to come to Musgrave Hall whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public, assurance, from James to Mycroft, of the promptitude with which he should come to see him at Delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the country.

 

It amused Mycroft to observe that all his friends seemed determined to send him to Delaford — a place in which, of all others, he would now least choose to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as his future home by Mr. Moriarty and Mrs. Hudson, but even Sally, when they parted, gave him a pressing invitation to visit her there.

 

Very early in April, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties from Hanover Square and Berkeley Street set out from their respective homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road. For the convenience of Janine and her child, they were to be more than two days on their journey, and Mr. Hawkins, travelling more expeditiously with Captain Watson, was to join them at Cleveland soon after their arrival.

 

Sherlock, few as had been his hours of comfort in London, and eager as he had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to the house in which he had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and that confidence, in Victor Trevor, which were now extinguished forever, without great pain. Nor could he leave the place in which Victor Trevor remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which _he_ could have no share, without shedding many tears.

 

Mycroft's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive. He had no such object for his lingering thoughts to fix on, he left no creature behind from whom it would give him a moment's regret to be divided forever, he was pleased to be free himself from the persecution of Sally's friendship, he was grateful for bringing his brother away unseen by Victor Trevor since his marriage, and he looked forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at Baker might do towards restoring Sherlock's peace of mind, and confirming his own.

 

Their journey was safely performed. The second day brought them into the cherished, or the prohibited, county of Somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by turns in Sherlock's imagination; and in the forenoon of the third they drove up to Cleveland.

 

Cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn. The pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive: like every other place of the same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery, a closer wood walk, and a road of smooth gravel winding round a plantation; the lawn was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them altogether, interspersed with tall Lombardy poplars, shut out the offices.

 

Sherlock entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the consciousness of being only eighty miles from Baker, and not thirty from Victor Trevor’s home, Combe Magna; and before he had been five minutes within its walls, while the others were busily helping Janine to show her child to the housekeeper, he quitted it again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its Grecian temple, his eye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their summits Combe Magna might be seen.

 

In such moments of precious, invaluable misery, Sherlock rejoiced in tears of agony to be at Cleveland; and as he returned by a different circuit to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, he resolved to spend almost every hour of every day, while he remained with the Hawkins family, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.

 

The morning was fine and dry, and Sherlock, in his plan of employment abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay at Cleveland. With great surprise, therefore, did he find himself prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner. He had depended on a twilight walk to the Grecian temple, and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred him from it; but a heavy and settled rain even _he_ could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.

 

Their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away. Mrs. Hawkins had her child, and Mrs. Hudson her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they had left behind, arranged Lady Stamford's engagements, and wondered whether Mr. Hawkins and Captain Watson would get farther than Reading that night. Mycroft, however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse; and Sherlock, who had the knack of finding his way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured himself a book.

 

Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Hawkins' side that constant and friendly good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome. The openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, though evident, was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and Mycroft could have forgiven everything but her laugh.

 

Mr. Hawkins and Captain Watson arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced very low.

 

Mycroft had seen so little of Mr. Hawkins, and in that little had seen so much variety in his address to his brother and himself, that he knew not what to expect to find him in his own family. He found him, however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; he found him very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself superior to people in general. Mycroft liked him, upon the whole, much better than he had expected, and in his heart was not sorry that he could like him no more — not sorry to be driven by the observation of his selfishness and his conceit, to rest with complacency on the remembrance of Greg's generous temper, simple taste, and diffident feelings.

 

Of Greg, or at least of some of his concerns, he now received intelligence from Captain Watson, who had been into Dorsetshire lately; and who, treating Mycroft at once as the disinterested friend of Mr. Lestrade, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to him a great deal of the parsonage at Delaford, described its deficiencies, and told him what he meant to do himself towards removing them. His behaviour to Mycroft in this, as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure in meeting him after an absence of only ten days, his readiness to converse with him, and his deference for his opinion, might very well justify Mrs. Hudson's persuasion of his attachment, and would have been enough, perhaps, had not Mycroft still, as from the first, believed Sherlock his real favourite, to make him suspect it himself. 

 

As it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered his head, except by Mrs. Hudson's suggestion; and he could not help believing himself the more skilled observer of the two: Mycroft watched Captain Watson’s eyes, while Mrs. Hudson thought only of his behaviour; and while his looks of anxious solicitude on Sherlock's feeling, in his head and throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped that good lady's observation, Mycroft could discover in them the quick feelings and needless alarm of a lover.

 

Two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of their being at Cleveland, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them, where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest, had — assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in his wet shoes and stockings — given Sherlock a cold so violent as, though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing ailments on the concern of everybody, and the notice of himself. Prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined. Though heavy and feverish, with a pain in his limbs, a cough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure him entirely; and it was with difficulty that Mycroft prevailed on him, when he went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could give you good news about the Holmes brothers, but I'm afraid next week we'll find that Sherlock is Much Worse.
> 
> I do have a little something to cheer you up, though. Last week I posted [Does John Watson Know that You're Gay?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18293060) \- in which Sherlock and John go out dancing and begin to see each other in a new light. I hope it will leave you singing a happy tune.


	42. Sherlock is Much Worse

Sherlock got up the next morning at his usual time; to every inquiry replied that he was better, and tried to prove himself so, by engaging in his accustomary employments. But a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire with a book in his hand, which he was unable to read, or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of his amendment; and when, at last, he went early to bed, more and more indisposed, Captain Watson was only astonished at Mycroft's composure, who, though attending and nursing him the whole day, against Sherlock's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on him at night, trusted, like Sherlock, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm.

 

A very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation of both; and when Sherlock, after persisting in rising, confessed himself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to his bed, Mycroft was very ready to adopt Mrs. Hudson's advice of sending for the apothecary.

 

He came, examined his patient, and though encouraging Mr. Holmes to expect that a very few days would restore his brother to health, yet, by pronouncing his disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to Mrs. Hawkins, on her baby's account. Mrs. Hudson, who had been inclined from the first to think Sherlock's complaint more serious than Mycroft, now looked very grave on Mr. Harris's report, and confirming Janine's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant.

 

Mr. Hawkins, though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be withstood. Her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour after Mr. Harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation, who lived a few miles on the other side of Bath; whither her husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her. 

 

Mrs. Hudson, however, with a kindness of heart which made Mycroft really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from Cleveland as long as Sherlock remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to him the place of the mother she had taken him from; and Mycroft found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all his fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of material use.

 

Poor Sherlock, languid and low from the nature of his malady, and feeling himself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow would find him recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended the whole way by a servant of Mrs. Hudson, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon. The little Sherlock said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though Mycroft tried to raise his spirits, and make him believe, as he then really believed himself, that it would be a very short one.

 

The next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient; he certainly was not better, and, except that there was no amendment, did not appear worse. Their party was now farther reduced; for Mr. Hawkins, though very unwilling to go, as well from real humanity and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last by Captain Watson to perform his promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, Captain Watson himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise. 

 

Here, however, the kindness of Mrs. Hudson interposed most acceptably; for to send the Captain away while his love was in so much uneasiness on his brother's account, would be to deprive them both, she thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his stay at Cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play at piquet of an evening, while Mr. Holmes was above with his brother, she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur; especially as Mrs. Hudson's entreaty was warmly seconded by Mr. Hawkins, who seemed to feel a relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise Mr. Holmes in any emergency.

 

Sherlock was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements. He knew not that he had been the means of sending the owners of Cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival. It gave him no surprise that he saw nothing of Mrs. Hawkins; and as it gave him likewise no concern, he never mentioned her name.

 

Two days passed away from the time of Mr. Hawkins' departure, and Sherlock’s situation continued, with little variation, the same. Mr. Harris, who attended him every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and Mycroft was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful. Mrs. Hudson had determined very early in the seizure that Sherlock would never get over it, and Captain Watson, who was chiefly of use in listening to Mrs. Hudson's forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence. He tried to reason himself out of fears which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see Sherlock no more.

 

On the morning of the third day, however, the gloomy anticipations of both were almost done away; for when Mr. Harris arrived, he declared his patient materially better. Sherlock’s pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit. Mycroft, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in his letters to his mother, he had pursued his own judgment rather than his friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at Cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when Sherlock would be able to travel.

 

But the day did not close so auspiciously as it began. Towards the evening Sherlock became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before. His brother, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have his bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw him, with satisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which he expected the most beneficial effects. His sleep, though not so quiet as Mycroft wished to see it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it himself, he resolved to sit with him during the whole of it. Mrs. Hudson, knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was resting in the housekeeper's room, and Mycroft remained alone with Sherlock.

 

The repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and his brother, who watched, with unremitting attention his continual change of posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed his lips, was almost wishing to rouse him from so painful a slumber, when Sherlock, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out — 

 

"Is Mummy coming?"

 

"Not yet," cried the other, concealing his terror, and assisting Sherlock to lie down again, "but she will be here, I hope, before it is long. It is a great way, you know, from hence to Baker."

 

"But she must not go round by London," cried Sherlock, in the same hurried manner. "I shall never see her, if she goes by London."

 

Mycroft perceived with alarm that he was not quite himself, and, while attempting to soothe him, eagerly felt his pulse. It was lower and quicker than ever! 

 

Sherlock continued talking wildly of Mummy, and Mycroft’s alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine him on sending instantly for Mr. Harris, and dispatching a messenger to Baker for their mother. To consult with Captain Watson on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon he had rung up the maid to take his place by his brother, he hastened down to the drawing-room, where he knew Captain Watson was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.

 

It was no time for hesitation. Mycroft’s fears and his difficulties were immediately before him. These fears, Captain Watson had no courage, no confidence to attempt the removal of — he listened to them in silent despondence — but the difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch Mrs. Holmes. 

 

Mycroft made no resistance that was not easily overcome. He thanked Captain Watson with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to Mr. Harris, and an order for post-horses directly, Mycroft wrote a few lines to his mother.

 

The comfort of such a friend at that moment as Captain Watson — or such a companion for his mother — how gratefully was it felt! A companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her! As far as the shock of such a summons _could_ be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it.

 

Captain Watson, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost dispatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which he might look for his return. Not a moment was lost in delay of any kind. The horses arrived, even before they were expected, and Captain Watson, only pressing Mycroft’s hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach his ear, hurried into the carriage. 

 

It was then about twelve o'clock, and Mycroft returned to his brother's apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by him the rest of the night. It was a night of almost equal suffering to both. Hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on Sherlock's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on Mycroft's, before Mr. Harris appeared. His apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all his former security; and the servant who sat up with him, for he would not allow Mrs. Hudson to be called, only tortured him more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.

 

Sherlock's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on his mother, and whenever he mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor Mycroft, who, reproaching himself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that everything had been delayed too long, and pictured to himself his suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see him rational.

 

He was on the point of sending again for Mr. Harris, or if _he_ could not come, for some other advice, when the former at last arrived. His opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to Mycroft. He promised to call again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and his anxious attendant more composed than he had found them.

 

With strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their aid, did Mrs. Hudson hear in the morning of what had passed. Her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to Mycroft, her conviction of his brother's danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope. 

 

Her heart was really grieved. The rapid decay, the early death of a gentleman so young as Sherlock, must have struck a less interested person with concern. On Mrs. Hudson's compassion he had still greater claims. He had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and he was known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy. The distress of his brother, too, particularly a favourite, was before her; and as for their mother, when Mrs. Hudson considered that Sherlock might probably be to _her_ what Janine was to herself, her sympathy in _her_ sufferings was very sincere.

 

Mr. Harris was punctual in his second visit; but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce. His medicines had failed; the fever was unabated; and Sherlock only more quiet — not more himself — remained in a heavy stupor. Mycroft, catching all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice. But Mr. Harris judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of Mr. Holmes. 

 

Mycroft was calm, except when he thought of his mother; but he was almost hopeless; and in this state he continued till noon, scarcely stirring from his brother's bed, his thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and his spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of Mrs. Hudson, who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous indisposition which Sherlock's disappointment had brought on. Mycroft felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to his reflections.

 

About noon, however, he began — but with a caution — a dread of disappointment which for some time kept him silent, even to his friend — to fancy, to hope he could perceive a slight amendment in his brother's pulse. He waited, watched, and examined it again and again; and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than all his foregoing distress, ventured to communicate his hopes. 

 

Mrs. Hudson, though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance; and Mycroft told himself likewise not to hope. But it was too late. Hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, he bent over his brother to watch — he hardly knew for what. 

 

Half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed Sherlock. Others even arose to confirm it. His breath, his skin, his lips, all flattered Mycroft with signs of amendment; and Sherlock fixed his eyes on him with a rational, though languid, gaze. 

 

Anxiety and hope now oppressed Mycroft in equal degrees, and left him no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of Mr. Harris at four o'clock — when his assurances, his felicitations on a recovery in his brother even surpassing his expectation, gave him confidence and comfort.

 

Sherlock was in every respect materially better, and the apothecary declared him entirely out of danger. Mrs. Hudson, perhaps satisfied with the partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery.

 

Mycroft could not be cheerful. His joy was of a different kind, and led to anything rather than to gaiety. Sherlock restored to life, health, friends, and to their doting mother, was an idea to fill his heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude; but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles. All within Mycroft was satisfaction, silent and strong.

 

He continued by the side of his brother, with little intermission the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of his enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every breath. The possibility of a relapse would, of course, in some moments, occur to remind him of what anxiety was — but when he saw, on his frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw Sherlock at six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, he silenced every doubt.

 

The time was now drawing on, when Captain Watson might be expected back. At ten o'clock, Mycroft trusted, or at least not much later, his mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towards them. The Captain, too — perhaps scarcely less an object of pity! Oh! How slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance!

 

At seven o'clock, leaving Sherlock still sweetly asleep, Mycroft joined Mrs. Hudson in the drawing-room to tea. Of breakfast he had been kept by his fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much; and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as he brought to it, was particularly welcome. Mrs. Hudson would have persuaded him, at its conclusion, to take some rest before his mother's arrival, and allow her to take his place by Sherlock; but Mycroft had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment about him, and he was not to be kept away from his brother an unnecessary instant. Mrs. Hudson therefore attending him upstairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left him there again to his charge and his thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep.

 

The night was cold and stormy. The wind roared round the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but Mycroft, all happiness within, regarded it not. Sherlock slept through every blast; and the travellers — they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience.

 

The clock struck eight. Had it been ten, Mycroft would have been convinced that at that moment he heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was the persuasion that he _did_ , in spite of the almost impossibility of their being already come, that he moved into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the truth. He instantly saw that his ears had not deceived him. The flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view. By their uncertain light he thought he could discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of his poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.

 

Never in his life had Mycroft found it so difficult to be calm, as at that moment. The knowledge of what his mother must be feeling as the carriage stopped at the door — of her doubt — her dread — perhaps her despair! And of what _he_ had to tell! With such knowledge it was impossible to be calm. All that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore staying only till he could leave Mrs. Hudson's maid with his brother, he hurried downstairs.

 

The bustle in the vestibule, as he passed along an inner lobby, assured Mycroft that they were already in the house. He rushed to the drawing-room — he entered it — and saw only Victor Trevor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duh! What could possibly be the purpose of such a visit? Find out next week, when Victor Trevor Endeavours to Explain Himself.
> 
> Meanwhile, I have been a busy little bee. Last weekend, many fortunate folks attended 221B Con, while those of use who weren't able to go lucked out in a different way, with [221B Consolation](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/221B_Consolation_2019). I Johnlockified the lyrics to two songs in response to prompts I received: [Come Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18355919) to the tune of The Beatles' song of the same name, and [I Love Him More than I Can Tell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18367436) to the tune of "Belle" from Beauty and the Beast.
> 
> I also posted a wee ficlet you might enjoy: [But Not Sherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18414224). Everyone's having a gay old time at the Baker Street Easter party - except Sherlock. Can John entice him to join in the fun?


	43. Victor Trevor Endeavours to Explain Himself

Mycroft, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of his heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and his hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by Victor Trevor’s hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication,

 

"Mr. Holmes, for half an hour — for ten minutes — I entreat you to stay."

 

"No, sir," Mycroft replied with firmness, "I shall _not_ stay. Your business cannot be with _me_. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you that Mr. Hawkins was not in the house."

 

"Had they told me," Mr. Trevor cried with vehemence, "that Mr. Hawkins and all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the door. My business is with you, and only you."

 

"With me!" — in the utmost amazement — "well, sir, be quick — and if you can, less violent."

 

"Sit down, and I will be both."

 

Mycroft hesitated; he knew not what to do. The possibility of Captain Watson's arriving and finding them there, came across him. But he had promised to hear Mr. Trevor, and his curiosity no less than his honour was engaged. After a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that his acquiescence would best promote it, Mycroft walked silently towards the table, and sat down. 

 

Mr. Trevor took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by either.

 

"Pray be quick, sir," said Mycroft, impatiently. "I have no time to spare."

 

Mr. Trevor was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear him.

 

"Your brother," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards, "is out of danger. I heard it from the servant. God be praised! — But is it true? Is it really true?"

 

Mycroft would not speak. 

 

He repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness. "For God's sake tell me, is he out of danger, or is he not?"

 

"We hope he is."

 

Mr. Trevor rose up, and walked across the room.

 

"Had I known as much half an hour ago — But since I am here," — speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat — "what does it signify? For once, Mr. Holmes — it will be the last time, perhaps — let us be cheerful together. I am in a fine mood for gaiety. Tell me honestly" — a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks — "do you think me most a knave or a fool?"

 

Mycroft looked at him with greater astonishment than ever. He began to think that Mr. Trevor must be in liquor; the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression he immediately rose, saying,

 

"Mr. Trevor, I advise you at present to return to Combe — I am not at leisure to remain with you longer. Whatever your business may be with me, it will be better recollected and explained tomorrow."

 

"I understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm; "yes, I am very drunk. A pint of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to over-set me."

 

"At Marlborough!” cried Mycroft, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at.

 

"Yes — I left London this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a luncheon at Marlborough."

 

The steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Mycroft, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, he said, after a moment's recollection,

 

"Mr. Trevor, you _ought_ to feel, and I certainly _do_ — that after what has passed — your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse. What is it, that you mean by it?"

 

"I mean," said he, with serious energy, "if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do now. I mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you that though I have been always a blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from Sher— from your brother."

 

"Is this the real reason of your coming?"

 

"Upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former Victor Trevor to Mycroft’s remembrance, and in spite of himself made him think him sincere.

 

"If that is all, you may be satisfied already, for Sherlock _does_ — he has long forgiven you."

 

"Has he?" Mr. Trevor cried, in the same eager tone. "Then he has forgiven me before he ought to have done it. But he shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds. — _Now_ will you listen to me?"

 

Mycroft bowed his assent.

 

"I do not know," said Mr. Trevor, after a pause of expectation on Mycroft’s side, and thoughtfulness on his own, "how _you_ may have accounted for my behaviour to your brother, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me. Perhaps you will hardly think the better of me… It is worth the trial however, and you shall hear everything.

 

“When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly than I had ever done before. Your brother's lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and his behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind — It is astonishing, when I reflect on what it was, and what _he_ was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of his happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to him, without any design of returning his affection."

 

Mycroft, at this point, turning his eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,

 

"It is hardly worth while, Mr. Trevor, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a beginning as this cannot be followed by anything. — Do not let me be pained by hearing anything more on the subject."

 

"I insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied. "My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old relation, Lady Smallwood, was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying someone of fortune. 

 

“To attach myself to your brother, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty — which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, Mr. Holmes, can ever reprobate too much — I was acting in this manner, trying to engage his regard, without a thought of returning it. But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not _then_ know what it was to love. 

 

“But have I ever known it? Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? Or, what is more, could I have sacrificed his? But I have done it. To avoid a comparative poverty, which your brother’s affection and his society would have deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence, lost everything that could make it a blessing."

 

"You did then," said Mycroft, a little softened, "believe yourself at one time attached to him?"

 

"To have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness! — Is there a man on earth who could have done it? — Yes, I found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of him; and the happiest hours of my life were what I spent with him when I felt my intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless. 

 

“Even then, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to him, I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here — nor will I stop for _you_ to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The event has proved that I was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched forever. 

 

“At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage your brother alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid him, and openly assure him of an affection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the interim — in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with him in private — a circumstance occurred — an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. 

 

“A discovery took place," — here he hesitated and looked down. "Lady Smallwood had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection — but I need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at Mycroft with a heightened colour and an enquiring eye — "your particular intimacy with Captain Watson — you have probably heard the whole story long ago."

 

"I have," returned Mycroft, colouring likewise, and hardening his heart anew against any compassion for him. "I have heard it all. And how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, I confess is beyond my comprehension."

 

"Remember," cried Victor Trevor, "from whom you received the account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that Miss Morstan’s situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge — that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, _she_ must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding — I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. I wish — I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind — Oh! How infinitely superior!"

 

"Your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl — I must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be — your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence."

 

"But, upon my soul, I did _not_ know it," he warmly replied. "I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might have told her how to find it out."

 

"Well, sir, and what said Lady Smallwood?"

 

"She taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world — everything was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it. 

 

“She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. 

 

“By one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman, she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Rosamund. That could not be — and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her house. 

 

“The night following this affair — I was to go the next morning — was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle was great — but it ended too soon. My affection for Sherlock, my thorough conviction of his attachment to me — it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my present husband, if I chose to address him, and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do.

 

“A heavy scene, however, awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire. I was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement. But whether I should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. To see Sherlock, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see him again, and keep to my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I saw him, and saw him miserable, and left him miserable — and left him hoping never to see him again."

 

"Why did you call, Mr. Trevor?" said Mycroft, reproachfully. "A note would have answered every purpose. Why was it necessary to call?"

 

"It was necessary to my own pride. I could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between Lady Smallwood and myself — and I resolved therefore on calling at the cottage. 

 

“The sight of your dear brother, however, was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found him alone. You were all gone I do not know where. I had left him only the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within myself on doing right! A few hours were to have engaged him to me forever; and I remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with everybody! 

 

“But in this, our last interview of friendship, I approached him with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling. His sorrow, his disappointment, his deep regret, when I told him that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately — I never shall forget it — united too with such reliance, such confidence in me! — Oh, God! — What a hard-hearted rascal I was!"

 

They were both silent for a few moments. Mycroft first spoke.

 

"Did you tell him that you should soon return?"

 

"I do not know what I told him," Mr. Trevor replied, impatiently. "Less than was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it. — It won't do. 

 

“Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven it _did_ torture me. I was miserable. Mr. Holmes, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. 

 

“Well, I went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was only indifferent. My journey to town — travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously — no creature to speak to — my own reflections so cheerless — when I had looked forward everything so inviting! — When I looked back at Baker, the picture so soothing! — Oh, it was a cursed journey!"

 

He stopped.

 

"Well, sir," said Mycroft, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for his departure, "and this is all?”

 

"Ah! No — have you forgot what passed in town? That infamous letter. Did he show it to you?"

 

"Yes, I saw every note that passed."

 

"When the first of his reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in town the whole time) my feelings were very, very painful. Every line, every word was a dagger to my heart. To know that Sherlock was in town was a thunderbolt. — Thunderbolts and daggers! — What a reproof would he have given me! — His taste, his opinions — I believe they are better known to me than my own — and I am sure they are dearer."

 

Mycroft's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again; yet he felt it his duty to check such ideas in his companion as the last.

 

"This is not right, Mr. Trevor. Remember that you are married. Relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear."

 

"Sherlock's note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to him as in former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, he was as constant in his own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to him, and choosing to fancy that he too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be heartily glad to hear he is well married.' But this note made me know myself better. I felt that he was infinitely dearer to me than any other man in the world, and that I was using him infamously. 

 

“But everything was then just settled between Mr. Milverton and me. To retreat was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no answer to Sherlock, intending by that to preserve myself from his farther notice; and for some time I was even determined not to call in Berkeley Street; but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my name."

 

"Watched us out of the house!"

 

"Even so. You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly a day in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. 

 

“I avoided the Stamfords as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town, however, I blundered on Sir Michael, I believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after I had called at Mrs. Hudson's. He asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening. Had he not told me as an inducement that you and your brother were to be there, I should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. 

 

“The next morning brought another short note from Sherlock — still affectionate, open, artless, confiding — everything that could make _my_ conduct most hateful. I could not answer it. I tried — but could not frame a sentence. But I thought of him, I believe, every moment of the day. 

 

“If you _can_ pity me, Mr. Holmes, pity my situation as it was _then_. With my head and heart full of your brother, I was forced to play the happy lover to another man! Those three or four weeks were worse than all. 

 

“Well, at last, as I need not tell you, you were forced on me. What an evening of agony it was! — Sherlock, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me Victor in such a tone! — Oh, God! — Holding out his hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face! And Charles, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that was — Well, it does not signify; it is over now.

 

“Such an evening! I ran away from you all as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Sherlock's sweet face as white as death. _That_ was the last, last look I ever had of him — the last manner in which he appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! Yet when I thought of him today as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how he would appear to those who saw him last in this world. He was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same look and hue."

 

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Victor Trevor first rousing himself, broke it thus:

 

"Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your brother is certainly better, certainly out of danger?"

 

"We are assured of it."

 

"Your poor mother, too — doting on Sherlock."

 

"But the letter, Mr. Trevor, your own letter; have you anything to say about that?"

 

"Yes, yes, _that_ in particular. Your brother wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning. You saw what he said. I was breakfasting at the Ellisons, and his letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Charles’ eye before it caught mine — and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave him a suspicion. Some vague report had reached him before of my attachment to some young man in Devonshire, and what had passed within his observation the preceding evening had marked who the young man was, and made him more jealous than ever. 

 

“Affecting an air of playfulness, therefore, he opened the letter directly, and read its contents. He was well paid for his impudence. He read what made him wretched. His wretchedness I could have borne, but his passion — his malice… At all events it must be appeased. And, in short — what do you think of my husband's style of letter-writing? Delicate — tender — was it not?"

 

"Your husband! The letter was in your own hand-writing."

 

"Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all his own — his own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do! We were engaged, everything in preparation, the day almost fixed — But I am talking like a fool. Preparation! — Day! — In honest words, his money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, anything was to be done to prevent a rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of Sherlock and his friends, in what language my answer was couched? — It must have been only to one end. My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance. 

 

“'I am ruined forever in their opinion,’ said I to myself. 'I am shut out forever from their society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my soon-to-be-husband’s words, and parted with the last relics of Sherlock. 

 

“His three notes — unluckily they were all in my pocket, or I should have denied their existence, and hoarded them forever — I was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair — that too I had always carried about me in the same pocket, which was now searched by Charles with the most ingratiating virulence — the dear lock — all, every memento was torn from me."

 

"You are very wrong, Mr. Trevor, very blamable," said Mycroft, while his voice, in spite of himself, betrayed his compassionate emotion; "you ought not to speak in this way, either of your husband or my brother. You had made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your husband has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least. He must be attached to you, or he would not have married you. To treat him with unkindness, to speak of him slightingly is no atonement to Sherlock — nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience."

 

"Do not talk to me of my husband," said he with a heavy sigh. "He does not deserve your compassion. — He knew I had no regard for him when we married. — Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to pretend to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to pretend to be gay. 

 

“And now do you pity me, Mr. Holmes? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I — be it only one degree — am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? — My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?"

 

"Yes, you have certainly removed something — a little. You have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know — the misery that you have inflicted — I hardly know what could have made it worse."

 

"Will you repeat to your brother, when he is recovered, what I have been telling you? — Let me be a little lightened too in his opinion as well as in yours. You tell me that he has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from him a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell him of my misery and my penitence — tell him that my heart was never inconstant to him, and if you will, that at this moment he is dearer to me than ever."

 

"I will tell him all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of his illness."

 

"Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran into Sir Michael Stamford, and when he saw who I was — for the first time these two months — he spoke to me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your brother, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to — though probably he did not think it _would_ — vex me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Sherlock Holmes was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland — a letter that morning received from Mrs. Hudson declared his danger most imminent. 

 

“I was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir Michael. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your brother was dying — and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in his last moments — for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? _One_ person I was sure would represent me as capable of anything —  What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all."

 

Mycroft made no answer. His thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. 

 

The world had made Victor Trevor extravagant and vain. Extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity, in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left Sherlock to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. 

 

From a reverie of this kind, Mycroft was recalled at the end of some minutes by Victor Trevor, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said — 

 

"There is no use in staying here; I must be off."

 

"Are you going back to town?"

 

"No — to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. Good bye."

 

He held out his hand. Mycroft could not refuse to give him his; he pressed it with affection.

 

"And you _do_ think something better of me than you did?" said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go.

 

Mycroft assured him that he did; that he forgave, pitied, wished him well — was even interested in his happiness — and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. 

 

Mr. Trevor’s answer was not very encouraging. "As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means — it may put me on my guard — at least, it may be something to live for. Sherlock to be sure is lost to me forever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again — "

 

Mycroft stopped him with a reproof.

 

"Well," he replied, "once more good bye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Your brother's marriage."

 

"You are very wrong. He can never be more lost to you than he is now."

 

"But he will be gained by someone else. And if that someone should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear — but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good bye. God bless you!"

 

And with these words, he almost ran out of the room. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of Victor Trevor's explanation? Do you believe him to be more wicked or more a fool? Can you find any compassion in your heart for his unhappy marriage and his now-hopeless longing for Sherlock? Or are you experiencing schadenfreude at the image of him being forced to lie in the bed he's made for himself? 
> 
> Next week we'll have good news at last, as Sherlock is Much Better.


	44. Sherlock is Much Better

Mycroft, for some time after Victor Trevor left, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of his brother.

 

Victor Trevor, he, whom only half an hour ago Mycroft had abhorred as the most worthless of men, Victor Trevor, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made Mycroft think of him as now separated forever from his family, with a regret rather in proportion, as he soon acknowledged within himself — to his wishes than to his merits. He felt that Mr. Trevor’s influence over his mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight: by that still ardent love for Sherlock, which it was not even innocent to indulge. But he felt that it was so, long, long before he could feel his influence less.

 

When at last Mycroft returned to the unconscious Sherlock, he found him just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of his hopes. Mycroft's heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Victor Trevor's visit, Sherlock's safety, and their mother's expected arrival, threw him altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made him only fearful of betraying himself to his brother. 

 

Short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect him, for within half an hour after Victor Trevor's leaving the house, he was again called downstairs by the sound of another carriage. Eager to save his mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, Mycroft ran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it.

 

Mrs. Holmes, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost the conviction of Sherlock's being no more, had no voice to inquire after him, no voice even for Mycroft; but he, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and his mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her son and her friend; and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Mycroft again and again, turning from him at intervals to press Captain Watson's hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own.

 

As soon as Mrs. Holmes had recovered herself, to see Sherlock was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger. Mycroft's delight, as he saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing Sherlock of farther sleep; but Mrs. Holmes could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and Sherlock, satisfied in knowing his mother was near him, and conscious of being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around him. 

 

Mrs. Holmes insisted on sitting up with Sherlock all night; and Mycroft, in compliance with her entreaty, went to bed. But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. 

 

Victor Trevor was constantly in his thoughts. Mycroft would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted himself for having judged him so harshly before. Yes, Mr. Trevor’s behavior had been reprehensible, but at least his fondness for Sherlock had not been wholly feigned. 

 

However, Mycroft’s promise of relating this to his brother was invariably painful. He dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Sherlock might be. Mycroft doubted whether after such an explanation — learning that he had been and still was desired — Sherlock could ever be happy with another; and for a moment wished Victor Trevor a widower. Then, remembering Captain Watson, Mycroft reproved himself, felt that to _his_ sufferings and _his_ constancy, far more than to his rival's, the reward of Sherlock’s heart was due, and wished anything rather than Charles Milverton-Trevor’s death.

 

The shock of Captain Watson's errand at Baker had been much softened to Mrs. Holmes by her own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about Sherlock, that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Sherrinford away, as his mother was unwilling to take him where there might be infection.

 

Sherlock continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs. Holmes' looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Mycroft could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether his mother ever recollected Greg. But Mrs. Holmes, trusting to the temperate account of his own disappointment which Mycroft had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. Sherlock was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Victor Trevor, had contributed to place him; and in his recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Mycroft. 

 

It was thus imparted to him, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred. "At last we are alone. My Mycroft, you do not yet know all my happiness. Captain Watson loves Sherlock. He has told me so himself."

 

Her son was all silent attention.

 

"You are never like me, dear Mycroft, or I should wonder at your composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Captain Watson's marrying one of you as the object most desirable. And I believe Sherlock will be the most happy with him of the two.

 

"He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child; he could not conceal his distress; I saw that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy — or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose — giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant affection for Sherlock. He has loved him, my Mycroft, ever since the first moment of seeing him.

 

“Captain Watson’s regard for him, infinitely surpassing anything that Victor Trevor ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant — whichever we are to call it — has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Sherlock's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man! And without selfishness — without encouraging a hope — could he have seen him happy with another. Such a noble mind! — Such openness, such sincerity! — No one can be deceived in _him_."

 

"Captain Watson's character," said Mycroft, "as an excellent man, is well established."

 

"I know it is," replied his mother seriously, "or after such a warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men."

 

"His character, however," answered Mycroft, "does not rest on _one_ act of kindness, to which his affection for Sherlock, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted him. To Mrs. Hudson, to the Stamfords, he has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do I value and esteem him, that if Sherlock can be happy with him, I shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world. What answer did you give him? — Did you allow him to hope?"

 

"Oh! My love, I could not then talk of hope to him or to myself. Sherlock might at that moment be dying. But he did not ask for hope or encouragement. His was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend — not an application to a parent. Yet after a time I _did_ say, for at first I was quite overcome — that if Sherlock lived, as I trusted he might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful security, I have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my power. Time, a very little time, I tell him, will do everything; Sherlock's heart is not to be wasted forever on such a man as Victor Trevor. Captain Watson’s own merits must soon secure it."

 

"To judge from the Captain's spirits, however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine."

 

"No. He thinks Sherlock's affection too deeply rooted for any change in it under a great length of time, and even supposing his heart again free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition he could ever attach him. There, however, he is quite mistaken. His age is only so much beyond Sherlock’s as to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed; and his disposition, I am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make your brother happy. And his person, his manners too, are all in his favour. My partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so young as Victor Trevor — but at the same time, there is something much more pleasing in his countenance. — There was always a something — if you remember — in Victor Trevor's eyes at times, which I did not like."

 

Mycroft could _not_ remember it; but his mother, without waiting for his assent, continued,

 

"And his manners, the Captain's manners are not only more pleasing to me than Victor Trevor's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attaching to Sherlock. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with his real disposition, than the liveliness — often artificial, and often ill-timed — of the other. I am very sure myself, that had Victor Trevor turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Sherlock would yet never have been so happy with _him_ , as he will be with Captain Watson.

 

"At Delaford, he will be within an easy distance of me," added Mrs. Holmes, "even if I remain at Baker; and in all probability — for I hear it is a large village — indeed there certainly _must_ be some small house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present situation."

 

Poor Mycroft! Here was a new scheme for getting him to Delaford!

 

"His fortune, too! — For at my time of life, you know, everybody cares about that — and though I neither know nor desire to know, what it really is, I am sure it must be a good one."

 

Here they were interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Hudson, and Mycroft withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to his friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for Victor Trevor, whose present suffering — though entirely due to his own behaviour — still stirred a sense of compassion. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! Do you think we might be in for some Johnlock at last? Or will Sherlock persist in his attachment to the worthless Victor Trevor? Find out next week, when Sherlock's Feelings are in Flux.


	45. Sherlock’s Feelings are in Flux

Sherlock's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to make his recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and his mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable him to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs. Hawkins' dressing-room. When there, at his own particular request, for Sherlock was impatient to pour forth his thanks for fetching his mother, Captain Watson was invited to visit him.

Captain Watson’s emotion on entering the room, in seeing Sherlock’s altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which he immediately held out to him, was such, as, in Mycroft's conjecture, must arise not only from his affection for Sherlock, or the consciousness of its being known to others, but also the fear of its not being returned.

Mrs. Holmes, not less watchful of what passed than her son, but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the Captain's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of Sherlock she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Sherlock growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, Mrs. Holmes, urged equally by her own and her son's wishes, began to talk of removing to Baker. On her measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Hudson could not quit Cleveland during the Holmes family’s stay; and Captain Watson was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable. At his and Mrs. Hudson's united request in return, Mrs. Holmes was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the Captain, at the joint invitation of Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to retrieve it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Sherlock, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Hudson, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to his own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding Captain Watson farewell with the cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that he should engross at least half. Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Hudson was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young companions; and Captain Watson immediately afterwards took his solitary way on horseback to Delaford.

The Holmes family was two days on the road, and Sherlock bore his journey on both without essential fatigue. Everything that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render him comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in his bodily ease, and his calmness of spirits. To Mycroft, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful. He, who had seen his brother week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which he had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result, as he trusted, of serious reflection, must eventually lead him to contentment and cheerfulness.

As they approached Baker, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, Sherlock grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away his face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window. But here, Mycroft could neither wonder nor blame; and when he saw, as he assisted Sherlock from the carriage, that he had been crying, he saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise anything less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise.

In the whole of his subsequent manner, Mycroft traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than Sherlock turned his eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom himself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of Victor Trevor could be connected. He said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped him, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile.

After dinner Sherlock would try his piano-forte. He went to it; but the music on which his eye first rested was an opera, procured for him by Victor Trevor, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf his own name in his hand-writing. That would not do. He shook his head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in his fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring, however, with firmness, as he did so, that he should in future practice much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms. On the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, Sherlock looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of Sherrinford's return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.

"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said he, "we will take long walks together every day. We will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to Sir Michael's new plantations at Baker Cross, and the Abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached. I know we shall be happy. I know the summer will pass happily away.

“I mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall divide every moment between music and reading. I have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study. Our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for anything beyond mere amusement. But there are many works well worth reading at the manor; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can borrow of Captain Watson. I intend to learn all I can of the natural sciences. By reading only six hours a day, I shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which I now feel myself to want."

Mycroft honoured him for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading Sherlock to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control. His smile, however, changed to a sigh when he remembered that his promise to Victor Trevor was yet unfulfilled, and feared he had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of Sherlock, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity. Willing, therefore, to delay the evil hour, he resolved to wait till his brother's health were more secure, before he appointed it. But the resolution was made only to be broken.

Sherlock had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like himself to venture out. But at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the son's wishes and the mother's confidence; and Sherlock, leaning on Mycroft's arm, was authorised to walk as long as he could without fatigue, in the lane before the house.

The brothers set out at a pace slow as the feebleness of Sherlock in an exercise hitherto untried since his illness required; and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with his eyes turned towards it, Sherlock calmly said,

"There, exactly there," pointing with one hand, "on that projecting mound — there I fell; and there I first saw Victor Trevor."

His voice sunk with the words, but presently reviving he added,

"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the spot. Shall we ever talk on that subject, Mycroft?" Hesitatingly it was said. "Or will it be wrong? I can talk of it now, I hope, as I ought to do."

Mycroft invited him to be open.

"As for regret," said Sherlock, "I have done with that, as far as he is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are now. At present, if I could be satisfied on one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not always acting a part, not always deceiving me — that my deductions about his character were not entirely wrong — but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so very wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl…”

He stopped.

Mycroft joyfully treasured his words as he answered, "If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy."

"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what he has been to me, of such designs — but what must it make me appear to myself? What, in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection, could so blind me to reason, could expose me to…”

"How then," asked his brother, "would you account for his behaviour?"

"I would suppose him — Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle, very, very fickle."

Mycroft said no more. He was debating within himself on the eligibility of beginning his story directly, or postponing it till Sherlock were in stronger health; and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.

"I am not wishing him too much good," said Sherlock at last with a sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in them."

"Do you compare your conduct with his?"

"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with yours."

"Our situations have borne little resemblance."

"They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, Mycroft, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think. It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past: I saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with Victor Trevor last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudent acts, and lack of kindness to others.

“I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery — wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to you all, did not kill me at once.

“Had I died, in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my brother! You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart! How should I have lived in your remembrance! My mother, too! How could you have consoled her?

“I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself. Whenever I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged. Everybody seemed injured by me. The kindness, the unceasing kindness of Mrs. Hudson, I had repaid with ungrateful contempt. To the Stamfords, to the Hawkinses, to Miss Hooper, to Miss Donovan, to every common acquaintance, even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention.

“But you — you above all had been wronged by me. I, and only I, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me? Not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself. Your example was before me; but to what avail? Was I more considerate of you and your comfort? Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone? No; not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only that heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you to be miserable for my sake."

Here ceased the rapid flow of his self-reproving spirit; and Mycroft, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave him instantly that praise and support which his frankness and his contrition so well deserved.

Sherlock pressed his hand and replied,

"You are very good. The future must be my proof. I have laid down my plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it, my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved. They shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself. I shall now live solely for my family. You, our mother, and Sherrinford, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you. From you, from my home, I shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix in other society, it will be only to show that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance.

“As for Victor Trevor — to say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle. His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions. But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by reason and constant employment."

Sherlock paused, then added in a low voice, "If I could but know his heart, everything would become easy."

Mycroft, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding his narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found himself leading to the fact.

He managed the recital as best he could: prepared his anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which Victor Trevor grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.

Sherlock said not a word. He trembled; his eyes were fixed on the ground, and his lips became whiter than even sickness had left them. A thousand inquiries sprung up from his heart, but he dared not urge one. He caught every syllable with panting eagerness; his hand, unknowingly to himself, closely pressed his brother's, and tears covered his cheeks.

Mycroft, dreading his being tired, led him towards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what his curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but Victor Trevor, and their conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged.

As soon as they entered the house, Sherlock, with a look of gratitude and these two words just articulate through his tears, "Tell Mummy," withdrew from his brother and walked slowly up stairs.

Mycroft would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what he now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Sherlock fail to do it, he turned into the parlour to fulfill his parting injunction. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The future is looking brighter for Sherlock. All is not yet well, however, as I fear next week will bring Dreadful News for Mycroft.
> 
> Don't despair, though. I have a humorous little ditty to take your mind off of this Regency drama. Check out [Dysfunction Junction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18656962) \- written two years ago, but new to AO3.


	46. Dreadful News

Unfortunately, this is not the promised/threatened Dreadful News for Mycroft. Instead, it’s dreadful news for you, dear readers. I have been ill, and will be unable to post a proper chapter this week. I’m hoping to be well enough to be back on schedule next week. Thank you for your patience.


	47. Dreadful News for Mycroft

Mrs. Holmes did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite. She allowed him to be cleared from some part of his imputed guilt; she was sorry for him; she wished him well. But the feelings of the past could not be recalled. Nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken, a character unblemished, to Sherlock. Nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards Miss Morstan. Nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of Captain Watson.

 

Had Mrs. Holmes, like her son, heard Victor Trevor's story from himself — had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater. But it was neither in Mycroft's power, nor in his wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by his explanation, as had at first been called forth in himself. Reflection had given calmness to his judgment, and sobered his own opinion of Victor Trevor's deserts; he wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.

 

In the evening, when they were all three together, Sherlock began voluntarily to speak of him again; but that it was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which he had been for some time previously sitting — his rising colour, as he spoke, — and his unsteady voice, plainly showed.

 

"I wish to assure you both," said he, "that I see everything as you can desire me to do."

 

Mrs. Holmes would have interrupted him instantly with soothing tenderness, had not Mycroft, who really wished to hear his brother's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence. 

 

Sherlock slowly continued, “It is a great relief to me — what Mycroft told me this morning. I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear." 

 

For some moments his voice was lost; but recovering himself, Sherlock added, and with greater calmness than before, "I am now perfectly satisfied; I wish for no change. I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this. I should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings.”

 

"I know it — I know it," cried his mother. "Happy with a man of libertine practices! With one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men! No — my Sherlock has not a heart to be made happy with such a man! His conscience, his sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of his husband ought to have felt."

 

Sherlock sighed, and repeated, "I wish for no change."

 

"You consider the matter," said Mycroft, "exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and I dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain. 

 

“Had you married Victor Trevor, you must have been always poor. His expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him. His demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the less grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before. 

 

“ _Your_ sense of honour and honesty would have led you, I know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that — and how little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage? — Beyond _that_ , had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge _his_ enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties?"

 

Sherlock's lips quivered, and he repeated the word "Selfish?" in a tone that implied "do you really think him selfish?"

 

"The whole of his behaviour," replied Mycroft, "from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness. It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from Baker. His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."

 

"It is very true. _My_ happiness never was his object."

 

"At present," continued Mycroft, "he regrets what he has done. And why does he regret it? Because he finds it has not answered towards himself. It has not made him happy. His financial circumstances are now stable — he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a man of a less amiable temper than yourself. 

 

“But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy? The inconveniences would have been different. He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing. He would have had a husband of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous — always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a husband."

 

"I have not a doubt of it," said Sherlock; "and I have nothing to regret — nothing but my own folly."

 

"Rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said Mrs. Holmes; _"I_ must be answerable."

 

Sherlock would not let her proceed; and Mycroft, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken his brother's spirits; he, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately continued,

 

"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story — that all Victor Trevor's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Rosamund Morstan. That crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents."

 

Sherlock assented most feelingly to the remark; and his mother was led by it to an enumeration of Captain Watson's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate. Her son did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by him.

 

Mycroft, according to his expectation, saw on the two or three following days, that Sherlock did not continue to gain strength as he had done; but while his resolution was unsubdued, and he still tried to appear cheerful and easy, his brother could safely trust to the effect of time upon his health.

 

Sherrinford returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to Baker, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.

 

Mycroft grew impatient for some tidings of Greg. He had heard nothing of him since leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode. Some letters had passed between him and his cousin, in consequence of Sherlock's illness; and in the first of James’ there had been this sentence: _"We know nothing of our unfortunate Greg, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;"_ which was all the intelligence of Greg afforded Mycroft by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. He was not fated, however, to be long in ignorance.

 

One of their servants, Billy, had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication: 

 

"I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Lestrade is married."

 

Sherlock gave a violent start, fixed his eyes upon Mycroft, saw him turning pale, and fell back in his chair in a swoon. Mrs. Holmes, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Mycroft's countenance how much he really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Sherlock's situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention.

 

Billy, who saw only that Master Sherlock was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the other servants, who, with Mrs. Holmes' assistance, supported him into the other room. By that time, Sherlock was rather better, and his mother leaving him to the care of Sherrinford and the servant, returned to Mycroft, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of his reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Billy, as to the source of his intelligence. Mrs. Holmes immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Mycroft had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.

 

"Who told you that Mr. Lestrade was married, Billy?"

 

"I saw Mr. Lestrade myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Donovan as was. They was stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Jane at the manor to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I saw directly it was Miss Donovan; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young gentlemen, especially Master Sherlock, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Lestrade's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but however, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you."

 

"But did she tell you she was married, Billy?"

 

"Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved. So, I made free to wish her joy."

 

"Was Mr. Lestrade in the carriage with her?"

 

"Yes, ma'am, I just saw his shadow, leaning back in it, but he did not look up; he never was a gentleman much for talking."

 

Mycroft's heart could easily account for Greg’s not putting himself forward; and Mrs. Holmes probably found the same explanation.

 

"Was there no one else in the carriage?"

 

"No, ma'am, only they two."

 

"Do you know where they came from?"

 

"They come straight from town, as Miss Donovan — I mean Mrs. Lestrade — told me."

 

"And are they going farther westward?"

 

"Yes, ma'am — but not to bide long. They will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here."

 

Mrs. Holmes now looked at her son; but Mycroft knew better than to expect them to visit. He recognised the whole of Sally in the message, and was very confident that Greg would never come near them. He observed in a low voice, to his mother, that they were probably going down to Mr. Gregson's, near Plymouth.

 

Billy's intelligence seemed over. Mycroft looked as if he wished to hear more.

 

"Did you see them off, before you came away?"

 

"No, ma'am — the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any longer; I was afraid of being late."

 

"Did Mrs. Lestrade look well?"

 

"Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady — and she seemed vastly contented."

 

Mrs. Holmes could think of no other question, and Billy and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed. Sherlock had already sent to say that he should eat nothing more. Mrs. Holmes' and Mycroft's appetites were equally lost, and Sherrinford might think himself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both his brothers had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, he had never been obliged to go without his dinner before.

 

When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Holmes and Mycroft were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence. Mrs. Holmes feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation. She now found that she had erred in relying on Mycroft's representation of himself; and justly concluded that everything had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Sherlock. She found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her eldest son, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be. She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Mycroft; that Sherlock's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in Mycroft she might have a son suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your kind wishes last week. I'm still a bit under the weather, but your lovely comments definitely cheered me up and helped put me on the mend. 
> 
> If any of you are fans of the BBC radio show Cabin Pressure - starring our very own Benedict Cumberbatch - I recently posted a humorous little ficlet you might enjoy: [Watershed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18820762).


	48. A Most Unexpected Visitor

Mycroft now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself. He now found, that in spite of himself, he had always admitted a hope, while Greg remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marrying Sally; that some resolution of Greg’s own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all. But he was now married; and Mycroft condemned his own heart for the lurking desire which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.

 

That Greg should be married so soon, before (as Mycroft imagined) he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living, surprised him a little at first. But he soon saw how likely it was that Sally, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook everything but the risk of delay. They were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's. What had Greg felt on being within four miles from Baker, on seeing their servant, on hearing Sally's message!

 

They would soon, Mycroft supposed, be settled at Delaford. Delaford — that place in which so much conspired to give him an interest; which he wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid. He saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Sally the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices; pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of Captain Watson, of Mrs. Hudson, and of every wealthy friend. In Greg, Mycroft knew not what he saw, nor what he wished to see: happy or unhappy — nothing pleased him; he turned away his head from every sketch of him.

 

Mycroft flattered himself that some one of their connections in London would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars; but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertain that anyone were to blame, he found fault with every absent friend. They were all thoughtless or indolent.

 

"When do you write to Captain Watson, ma'am?" was an inquiry which sprung forth for his mother from the impatience of his mind to have something going on.

 

"I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to hear from him again. I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day."

 

This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Captain Watson must have some information to give.

 

Scarcely had Mycroft so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew his eyes to the window. The rider stopped at their gate. It was a gentleman; it was Captain Watson himself.

 

Now Mycroft could hear more about Greg; and he trembled in expectation of it. 

 

But — it was _not_ Captain Watson — neither his air — nor his height. Were it possible, Mycroft would say it must be Greg. 

 

He looked again. The rider had just dismounted. Mycroft could not be mistaken — it _was_ Greg. 

 

Mycroft moved away and sat down. "He comes from Mr. Gregson's purposely to see us,” Mycroft told himself. “I _will_ be calm; I _will_ be master of myself."

 

In a moment he perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake. He saw his mother and Sherlock change colour; saw them look at himself, and whisper a few sentences to each other. Mycroft would have given the world to be able to speak — and to make them understand that he hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to Greg; but he had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.

 

Not a syllable passed aloud. They all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.

 

Greg’s countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for Mycroft. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Holmes, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that son, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in everything, met him with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.

 

Greg coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. 

 

Mycroft's lips had moved with his mother's, and, when the moment of action was over, he wished that he had shaken hands with Greg, too. But it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, he sat down again and talked of the weather.

 

Sherlock had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal his distress; and Sherrinford, understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on him to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from Greg as he could, and maintained a strict silence.

 

When Mycroft had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Holmes, who felt obliged to hope that Greg had left Mrs. Lestrade very well. 

 

In a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.

 

Another pause.

 

Mycroft, resolving to exert himself, though fearing the sound of his own voice, now said,

 

"Is Mrs. Lestrade at Longstaple?"

 

"At Longstaple!" Greg replied, with an air of surprise. "No, my mother is in town."

 

"I meant," said Mycroft stoically, "to inquire about Mrs. Greg Lestrade."

 

He dared not look up; but his mother and Sherlock both turned their eyes on their visitor. 

 

Greg coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said, "Perhaps you mean — my brother — you mean Mrs. — Mrs. Anderson Lestrade."

 

"Mrs. Anderson Lestrade!" was repeated by Sherlock and Mrs. Holmes in an accent of the utmost amazement; and though Mycroft could not speak, even _his_ eyes were fixed on Greg with the same impatient wonder. 

 

Greg rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,

 

"Perhaps you do not know — you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to — to Miss Sally Donovan."

 

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Mycroft, who sat with his head bowed, in a state of such agitation as made him hardly know where he was.

 

"Yes," said Greg, "they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish."

 

Mycroft could sit still no longer. He almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first he thought would never cease. Greg, who had till then looked anywhere, rather than at him, saw him hurry away, and perhaps saw — or even heard, his emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. Holmes could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village — leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden; a perplexity which they had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How long will Mycroft and his family be left in joyful perplexity? Find out next week, when Greg Explains Himself.


End file.
